The soothing sound of blue floats past my sight,
I open up my eyes to hear a shape;
The colours and the music are not right,
The painting tastes more like a stark landscape.
I open up my eyes to hear a shape,
As Turner’s clouds begin to smell of damp;
The painting tastes more like a stark landscape,
With senses overwhelmed until they cramp.
As Turner’s clouds begin to smell of damp,
My mother says they sound like rippled spray;
With senses overwhelmed until they cramp,
The petals falling sound like a Monet.
My mother says they sound like rippled spray,
As neurons in my brain begin to beat;
The petals falling sound
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