Perhaps you've heard it said,
the words inside each head,
are paints meant to be read,
on woven canvas thread.
What worlds can stories tell,
when worlds are flat and still,
like nine steps into hell,
like ocean without swell.
I propose that four
dimensions make the word,
our senses at the core,
and time knocks at the door
The image in my mind,
is not of the painted kind,
it is the sight of the blind,
vivid, real, and hard to find
