Now I wonder the world is a painting,

an imaginary chamber where captives sing,

like a caged dove obeying a hunter

enticing free birds to live in bliss.

And then I see darkness of dusk fade away

as the sun begins to peek in the east.

So my reverie seems to break off

and I realize it's real it's real it's real.

Suddenly Picasso passes me by whispering

Feel and be silent, feel and implode.

A storm unsettles the unconscious drawing

a grey line between real and unreal—

something else eases an inner epidemic.

Poetry heals, poetry is a fount of recovery.

I wish the world were right a painting.