The beauty I saw of you at first
was enough to bide my hunger and to quench my thirst
was it different then or might I'd been blind?
you were never a tiny brushstroke in the grand design.
You could give a beauty even to the night
not caught up in catching the American dream in flight
never too busy to give the comfort of your hands
while the beautiful people rush about tending their own demands.
Continental breakfasts on islands far away
designer clothes and fancy cars for every other day
offices in plazas, too high to look when I pass
to think it was a wall of China, turns out it's only glass.
Big houses on hills with white picket fences
words fill the space outside with no thought to their expenses
gardens of unconcern for their consequences
much like a politician's style, dollars and no senses.
It's the beautiful art of convenience
to have people underneath, turning on a dime
I wonder if they know they'll be left behind?
And now on the canvas of it all...heart, soul, and mind
I would see my life though it took some time
you are a tiny brushstroke in the grand design.
Yet crimson flows hard through the cracks in the shell
fed by the distraught and dismay
of having to bring myself to bid a final farewell
to the passionate exhibits of my Monet.
So as way leads on to way
and sea flows into sea
understand where this goodbye is from
it's only that you've now become
far too beautiful for me.