I sit in the old sleepy hollow chair
Amongst faces sculpted from clay
You paint. Images held upon your brush
Like fast moving trains at whistlestops

Cries from your mind show colors
Anger, joy, hope…facades of thoughts
Effortlessly you sway them into forms
While I become your audience

Sounds of operas play smooth tunes
As you swoop me into your dream
I cannot turn to run. It is your reality
And I am your princess of light

We believe the same things you and I
Like souls born of one womb
The paint keeps its sounds on the canvas
Though I have listened once more to angels