• Is my mind a canvas brushed in fiction,
    Or does it bleed in hues of truth,
    A quiet dream, a muted vision,
    Framed in a frame that’s yet uncouth?

    A stroke of gold upon the sky,
    Flickers, dances, whispers, sighs.
    Do I paint the world as it is, or try
    To catch the ghost that never dies?

    The morning sun, a soft embrace,
    But shadows stretch in woven lace.
    Do I choose the palette of this place,
    Or wear illusion on my face?

    In washes deep, in blurring strokes,
    Reality slips, soft as smoke.
    Fiction blooms like secret oaks,
    Rooted where the unseen floats.

    Between each color, a subtle crack,
    A shimmer of what I cannot lack.
    Do I chase the light, or turn my back,
    To find my soul in pigment's track?

    A world in motion, blurred, divine,
    Where truth and dream both intertwine.
    Which one is mine, or is the line
    A painted veil I’ve made to bind?

    Is my mind a canvas yet to be,
    Or bound by brushstrokes, wild, set free?