She's like an autumn leaf
clinging to forgotten trees,
changing colors until tinted brown,
crumbles into the solid ground.
But she holds her head high
And waits for a second try,
Waits for the frost to fade.

The wind laughs like a taunting
friends, like a crafted captured gaze.
She folds her hands
like she understands,
Locked in an artist's haze.

And she loves the look on your face
and the sound it makes
as she sketches your stale silhouette
beneath the vivd sky.
Rock-a-bye baby, love me maybe, baby please,
Please don't cry.

All alone in a coffee shop,
she's writing a tidal wave.
Painted arms expose her soul,
her sanity to save.


And the rain keeps falling
despite her fevered cries,
but she keeps calling,
calling through the thick air saying
"beautiful baby...
baby, please don't cry.
Beautiful baby....baby,
I'll sing you a lullaby...

_________________


"Great art is as irrational as great music. It is mad with its own loveliness."