Poetry Museum

I saw a Picasso, that pain, that suffer, i saw at her and got it, understood her crying, her angry, her pain, my heart, as dead as her son, wake up in fury to feel her desolate scream, her sadness and tears, her monstrosity.
I saw a Miró and i found myself in this red feel of poetry,in his logic, in his mind, in the hearth of a man that i can't understand.
I saw a Dalí and i am diluted in his invisible touch, taking me to deserts and nights,to wishes and fears,to colors and forms that makes nothing and everything has sense.
My body leaved those walls but part of my soul stayed, circulating like a ghost,sharing the moment when others leaves part of theirs.