The Road is Painted Loud

The road is painted loud, my love,

with colors that refuse to fade.

The tambourines are trembling,

the prophets have been paid.

There's a woman on a paper horse,

her veil is torn with sound.

She hums a song with broken chords,

then lets them hit the ground.

The river moves like candle wax,

slow and thick and true.

A man who might have been the king

is lacing up his shoes.

Oh, lover, take the longest way,

the one that bends like sin.

The gate was open yesterday,

but I don't know if it's open again.