October Mornings
October mornings
no one is claiming to be insane
and tho it's tilting
no one's explaining
the labyrinth of colors
unwinding in amazement
and from the afternoons of still life
to the evening's portrait
frames do not intend to be the end
and the paint is only rain
matador magicians
with the pendulums of their hands
are throwing questions
into vacant corridors of waiting
then stand back to laugh at
circles of confusion
lines of answers and the shapes
from sudden pressure of their face
against the glass
are the signs upon their capes
a metamorphosis
of rainbow spice into ice
the cardboard stop signs
announce the coming of the cellophane moon
crashing thru its phases
the open night is hanging mind-cloud posters
from the edge of the universe
the stars are moaning for a double
then explode from loneliness
guitars and flute trills
in cloaks of string quartets
untangle the morning
electric dancers are dangling the sky
with fireworks and candles
and from the afternoons of still life
to the evening's portrait
frames do not intend to be the end
and the paint is only rain
no one is claiming to be insane
and tho it's tilting
no one's explaining
the labyrinth of colors
unwinding in amazement
and from the afternoons of still life
to the evening's portrait
frames do not intend to be the end
and the paint is only rain
matador magicians
with the pendulums of their hands
are throwing questions
into vacant corridors of waiting
then stand back to laugh at
circles of confusion
lines of answers and the shapes
from sudden pressure of their face
against the glass
are the signs upon their capes
a metamorphosis
of rainbow spice into ice
the cardboard stop signs
announce the coming of the cellophane moon
crashing thru its phases
the open night is hanging mind-cloud posters
from the edge of the universe
the stars are moaning for a double
then explode from loneliness
guitars and flute trills
in cloaks of string quartets
untangle the morning
electric dancers are dangling the sky
with fireworks and candles
and from the afternoons of still life
to the evening's portrait
frames do not intend to be the end
and the paint is only rain
Credits
Writer(s): Tucker Zimmerman
Lyrics powered by www.musixmatch.com
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