This world conforms to me.
Landscapes bursting with hues,
You can almost smell the colors.
Benevolent to my wounds.
Distorted shapes and figures
Blending with one another.
My solace,
My sanctum,
My peace.
My worries,
My pain,
My memories,
None are welcome.
An escape from all that wishes to harm me.
One stroke of my finger
And all my imagination appears.
I hear familiar voices from the outside.
“Come back,” they shout,
“Come back to reality
And face what troubles you.”
“No,” I whisper,
“I think I’ll stay.”