Be aware of the invisible ones,
The painters,
The poets,
And the wanderers of time.
They appear as rapidly as they vanish,
Shadows in a room.
Their eyes have no filters.
They see you clearly,
Quietly seated on the corner table,
Sipping on tea,
Absorbing their surrounding environment involuntarily,
Voluntarily if they have matured.
The key allows them to observe the details,
To cultivate the art of observation,
To become loyal friends of silence,
To listen without formulating words for response,
To be fully imprisoned with themselves as they shape-shift the world around them.