You're a painting with symbols deep,
A symphony, soft as it shifts from dark beneath,
A poem that flows, caressing my skin,
In all of these things you reside,
And I want you flow from the pen, bow and brush , with paper and string, and canvas tight,
With ink in the air, to dust your light from morning to the black of night.
This is my call, I belong to you,
This is my call: to sing the melodies of you,
This is my call, I can do nothing else,
I can do nothing else.
You're the scent of an unfound bloom,
A simple tune I only write variations to,
A drink that will knock me down on the floor,
A key that will unlock the door where I hear a voice sing familiar themes,
Then beckons me, "Weave notes in between,"
A bow and a string, a tap and glass you pour me 'til the day has passed.
This is my call, I belong to you,
This is my call: to sing the melodies of you,
This is my call, I can do nothing else,
I can do nothing else.
This is my call, I belong to you,
This is my call: to sing the melodies of you,
This is my call, I can do nothing else,
I can do nothing else,
This is my call, I belong to you,
This is my call: to sing the melodies of you,
This is my call, I can do nothing else,
I can do nothing else.
