Dreaming Painter

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)