(Owen lays sprawled across a bed, awaiting Margery's return. The position is familiar, but on this particular night the sound of her soft footsteps never comes.)

So you're in love with the idea of being in love
Where is she now
Your head's filled up with thoughts of a quote, end quote us
So where is she now

Pictured in a room
Skin stretched over his frame
This Pollock mind and unreal city lights
Keep the moon and I at bay

A mask of bone wore under fleshy tone
In only the deepest shades
Transfixed in time, the stillest life
Stars fill this flooded grave

The artist's life's a dangerous one
So fragile and over dramatic
On red sky the passion of a lover's embrace
Nearly burns right through the canvas

In another time you image her face
With her body as the Violin of Ingress
For a kiss wrapped tight in a blanket of gold
So soft she'd close her eyelids

So you feel stuck in a pose for that girl you can't touch
So why hang around
Well if you mist, come on and find the nerve
*enough is enough*
Now, here, something I can't figure out

Pallid as a ghost
Hands pressed hard against his face
These Dali eyes lost in Edvard skies
Skew the village that I create

A vase is thrown filled with orange and gold
Though the silence never breaks
Empty reservoirs like the canon fire
The biggest splash that he could make

The artist's life's a dangerous one
So prone to delusions and madness
Through a desert he roams bound by lashes of rope
In a body that some sickness has ravaged

In another time you imagine the greats
Who suffered for the prized Galstea
A Man alone in a cave and a soul
Ascetic for one beautiful idea


Lyrics submitted by christography

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