regalia of image and word

Khaliopendrous recites back his last poems.
In regalia of words he has dressed up himself.
But one question he has posited among the emptiness
Do the images of these colours exist in actuality?
Or are they only production of the prison of fiction
we were born in?
Images are an attempt of obtaining
reason from absurdity.
But attempts are just dreams dwelling in the cloggy air.