Images on the sidewalk speak of dream's decent

Washed away by storms to graves of cynical lament

Dirty canvases to call my own

Protest limericks carved by the old pay phone



In your picture book I'm trying hard to see

Turning endless pages of this tragedy

Sculpting every move you compose a symphony

You plead to everyone, "see the art in me"



Broken stained-glass windows, the fragments ramble on

Tales of broken souls, an eternity's been won

As critics scorn the thoughts and works of mortal man

My eyes are drawn to you in awe once again



In your picture book I'm trying hard to see

Turning endless pages of this tragedy

Sculpting every move you compose a symphony

You plead to everyone, "see the art in me"