Delusion
What the mind creates
Is real; the physical is
The illusion. Art born of
Passion like a finger that
Touches a wasps nest,
Be still and no harm will
Come . Storm clouds
Gather; I smell the linseed
On the canvas. Mind that
Guides the hand that
Guides the pigment that
Calms the storm. Fingers
Touch and we can see our
Soul? A sea of faces stare
At me; I am one, are they
The delusion?
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