They walk through dreams,

Skating on brush strokes of resplendent colors,

Gliding through prismatic clouds.


Leaves are nothing more than venations. 

A flower is nothing more than a kaleidoscope of cells,

Material is nothing more than color, contour, and contrast.

Utilitarianism ceases. 


In dreams they are awake,

While awake, they are dreaming.

This artist is a vessel of the true soul.


Their body is a prison for the subconscious.

In dreams, the subconscious is conscious,

The soul is awake.


This poem is about: 
Our world


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