Portrait

In a busy part of town Fifty feet above the ground In a corner of my room There's a photograph of you Accidental and volatile Your eyes were closed that time you smiled As if you hid some kind of fire All your passions growing wild Out of reach Out of reach until the end In the middle of the night In a dream harrowed and vile In the heat waves of your mind You paint my portrait black and white Two open windows for the eyes History books for pearly whites You didn't add the wrinkled lines You didn't add the wasted time We will leave We will leave We will leave We, oh, we will leave before the end The world's a spiral of collapsing images For every body a burning building, oh But in the hallways of our synaptic basilica I could be a child I could be a child, maybe something beautiful And we will leave And we will leave We will leave And we, oh, we will leave before the end