Feeling is the universe

There's no painting
that takes me there,
texts fired me long
ago, I get attached to the
strings for nothing,
all paraphernalia fail,
I’m inevitably thwarted
to experience, witness 
the prescribed romance,
angst of time and space.

The brush, the pen, 
the rhyme, the rhythm
morass me in an abyss
of unreal compositions,
useless jewels.

I close my eyes,
with newfangled wings 
I feel the early clouds
in the sky, the news
of sunrise through my
goosebumps, I approach
the beach, the waves caress
my feet.

I wonder how I was
in the midst of the magic,
which mechanical miracle
took me to the warmth,
the froth, even the salt in 
the waves my bewildered
tongue could sense.

I open my eyes.
The dichotomy has
me confused.

In gratitude, I wake up
and crawl my way up
from the gorge, look at
the canvas, the words,
the notes in wonder,
are these then the
technical instruments
in prose and verse,
that opened the treasure 
of my priceless universe.