A heartbroken man sings a beautiful song, although only if you can relate,
His soft eyes tell tales of a road rough and long and a deep love that drowned out his hate.
You drink your desire and get up to leave, turning quickly to laugh at his pain,
Forgetting to give what you're sure to receive but knowing you'll be back again.
You drive down the streets to the places you've been and the gray houses all look the same,
So you paint a new picture over faces you've seen, making sure not to blemish the frame.
Watching the rain fall, you sit in your room, then return to your small, lonely fire,
To yourself you're a saint since that day in the womb when you critiqued the heavenly choir.
You drain all your shadows with visions of glory, every star's what you want it to be,
Your life's just a book although part of the story was ripped out so you could be free.
You've become quite content with your home in the clouds, dismissing what you can't control,
As you glow with contentment looking down on the crowds, who serve as your personal soul.