Memories have a way of revealing themselves.
Is the soul trapped in cycles of divine intervention?
My images are composed of more than my own.
How is it that I see you through those echoing dimensions?
Our communication has a way of ringing true.
The angels subtly guide us.
Only to be trapped in the composure of the soul.
Are you so different?
I am vouchsafed in knowing you.
I am older than the sum of my days.
And trapped in me are the memories yet to be.
Or maybe they are a simple reminder of my choices.
Or maybe I am composed of the life you are.
You are expanding life in me.
You are a friend without form.
I am not alone for as a whole, we are one.
It is beautiful the way a caterpillar turns into a butterfly.
By Bobby Zamora (1995)
- bobbyfzamora posted this