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"