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| Album: Pieces Of You |
eighty years, and old lady now, sitting on the front porch
watching the clouds roll by
they remind her of her lover, how he left her, and of times long ago
when she used color carelessly, painted his portrait
a thousand times- or maybe just his smile-
and she and her canvas would follow him wherever he would go
cause they were painters and they were painting themselves
a lovely world
oil streaked daisies covered the living room wall
he put water colored roses in her hair
he said, ?love, I love you, I want to give you mountains, the sunshine,
the sunset too
I want to give you everything as beautiful as you are to me
cause they were painters and they were painting themselves
a lovely world
so they sat down and made a drawing of their love, an art to live by
they painted ever, passion every home, created every beautiful child
in the winter they were weavers of warmth,
in summer they were carpenters of love
they thought blue prints were too sad so they made them yellow
cause the were painters and they were painting themselves
a lovely world
until one day the rain fell as thick as black oil
and in her hear she knew something was wrong
she got to where he lay, water colored roses in his hands for her
she threw them down screaming, ?Damn you man, don?t leave me
with nothing left behind but these cold paintings, these cold portraits
to remind me
he said, ?love I leave, but only a little, try to understand
I put my soul in this live we created with these four hands
love, I leave, but only a little, this world holds me still
my body may die now, but these paintings are real?
so many seasons came and many seasons went
and many times she saw her love?s face watering the flowers
talking to the trees and singing to his children
and when the wind blew, she knew he was listening
and how he seemed to laugh along, and how he seem to hold her
when she was crying
cause they were painters and they were painting themselves
a lovely world
eighty years, an old lady now, sitting on the front porch
watching the clouds roll by, they remind here of her lover
how he left her and of times long ago, when she used to color
carelessly
painted his portrait a thousand times, or maybe just his smile
and she and her canvas would follow him where ever he would go
yes, she and her canvas still follow
because the are painters and they are painting themselves
a lovely world |
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