resounds in my mind as I meditate,
Monet waves his brush at bothersome bees
as the words appear and do animate.
And a starry night is where I oft land
as visions of, Poe and Shelly drift-by,
for Elysian Fields is where I do stand,
mesmerized again by a brush-swirled sky.
I also have stood on vast surreal plains,
where bizarre creatures with long legs did stride,
where holy men sang in solemn refrains
with Dante himself, as my spirit guide.
Oh, great healer of hearts, please guide my pen,
as I end my prayer with wishful, amen.