Canvas and Paint

With an artist's eye and a bleeding heart

A corrupted mind that's torn apart

He takes the tools that he acquaints

Returns an image of canvas and paint.

Each color drawn from a road he's run

Each line infuse with part of somone

He's met somewhere, every sinner or saint,

An image born of canvas and paint.

In a third person way you speak to me

Couched in humor and philosophy

Between the lines, it's you and me

Bells and whistles and biology.

Every angle cut from a lover's lie

Every circle formed from a lover's sigh

The texture falls without restraint

Drawn from a well of canvas and paint.

He fills the shadows with the lost and dead

And signs his name with the tears he's shed

If you ask the meaning, he'll weave and feint -

It's a wooden frame of canvas and paint.

In a third person way you speak to me

Couched in humor and philosophy

Between the lines, it's you and me

Bells and whistles and biology.

In a vaulted room down a marble hall

They hang his painting upon the wall

It's good! It's bad! Complex! It's quaint!

Grown from seeds of canvas and paint.

Flesh and bones and the human heart

Each man and woman, the sum of their parts

Some rejoice, some lodge complaints

But each one born of canvas and paint.

In a third person way you speak to me

Couched in humor and philosophy

Between the lines, it's you and me

Bells and whistles and biology.