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".