Inside the frame, a wooden grain, a woman sits.
Her cheek resting lightly on a delicate hand.
Her cherub lips forming a silent smile
As azure eyes dream of past lives.
An essence created by gentle strokes,
No form of clay could do her justice.
The whisper of spirit deep within her.
Her sky, always at the mercy of God.
She exists where east meets west,
Feeding on days gone by,
As painted flesh sings an eternal song.