Human Construction Poem by Ghost Legend

On one of my last strolls, I saw a mountain range and thought,
“The world's a painting, is it not?
What a brilliant imitation...
What exuberant delineation
Covers every single spot
Of beauty in all nations
As ingredients in a pot...”

A little after then, I stopped
And watched
The travelers in march,
Sullen, starched,
Dressed at large,
Joking, and whatnot;
Clothing formal worth noting
Or scarce and provoking
To cover the need for eloping
Through better jobs.

That was when the question was brought:
“Who's imitating—the world or the paintings...
Or are they confabulating to construct us? ”