A hazy high rise horizon tempted heights to the dawn,
Prismatic wave lengths send colours that iris’ can’t draw.
The spectrum of red fire that starts to eat the insides of the casino,
The violet money burns good,
yet they have to hitchhike for a place to borrow.

Artists have a tough cope on what their art is for,
or even what their art is.
The charlatan has a tendency to hate what he will miss,
and forgets the women he swoons for aren’t really his.
Addicts scoop the day of the dust up;
taking a stroll down their local high road.
The silver screen siren craves attention,
yet she gets it,
and still feels alone.

An ultra violet ambulance dashes for the saved,
There’s this soul that is a creeping,
a creeping to the grave.
Its the urgency of the heartbreak that gets the deepest croon –
and pockets full of roses that can fill the entire room.