The Art Gallery

But there is a time when all stands still.

The ticking tocking hands begin to freeze

Her heart, steadily begins to beat

Motion meets defeat, as her reasoning comfortably takes the back seat

Her feet planted to the concrete.

There she is, can't you see her?

There she breathes, in the world she created out of the fragments of her dreams.

 

She feels, she has longed to feel.

The very thing they sought to steal

But with time she healed

And here she stands fullfilled

She is in that place again isn't she?

That world that only her sees?

These paintings are more than just art to her it seems

This art is the clue to the mystery

To look within her entity

You must live in the art gallery.

This poem is about: 
Me

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