Standing in the window,
Small, delicate pink roses
On a white wicker table,
He's leaning against the tall
White wooden framed
Window,
He’s
Looking down , out on the street
From the third floor.

It's raining,
School children are running
Down the street in the rain.
Yellow buses are gathering
Their treasure in.
On the corner,
Black umbrellas hide
End of the day commuters,
Waiting for their ride.

He’s
Looking down, out on the street
From the third Floor.
She's walking
In the rain,
Her umbrella
Held to the side.
Purse, case,
And books tightly
Against her,
She's hurrying to find
Where life left her
Waiting for someone,
To love and discover her,
Past the cover,
Deep on her pages inside.

He's watching from above,
Looking down, out on the street
From the third Floor.
Of all the loves
He'd left behind,
He tried to remember
Them each,
All of them beautiful,
All of them kind,
All of them dedicated,
All of them loved him,
But each he left behind.
Had he only understood
Then the pages on the inside.
Love's a decision of sacrifice,
Not what you take,
But what you're willing to put aside.
Sacrifice means forgetting
Who you are
For someone else.
Loving self really means
Learning to be selfless.
It's raining,
He's looking down, out on the street
From the third Floor.

It's raining,
She's running down the street,
In high heels,
Ducking quickly into
Her car
Where someone's been waiting.
She reminds him,
Many years ago,
How it would be to be young again.
To remake all of your lovers friends,
To start each one anew,
To know them as they were,
Not just as he knew them then.
She's gone now,
And he's watching,
Looking down, out on the street
From the third Floor.

Behind him,
On the high white walls
Of the old house,
His works adorn the room.
Room after room,
Writings and art,
His muse,
Beauty,
Addicted him to love
Her first,
Above all others,
She captured him very young,
And he never knew real love
Except for her again.
She's everywhere,
In room after room,
In writing after writing,
In art after art,
Even in his name,
She's there.
His muse of love and pain.
She captured him very young
And he never knew
True love , except for her again.
He's watching, from the window,
Down, out on the street
From the third Floor.

Now,
Past the age of adventure,
Past the age exploration,
Past the age of climbing mountains
Full of glaciers,
And traversing forests full of snow;
Past the age of chasing lions,
Searching for elusive Leopards,
F ollowing the trails of
Elephants,
Co-mingling with Zebras, and
Climbing after dreams,
He lives with her,
His muse,
And the past is now not
What he thought it would be.
The real art are the loves
He's lost,
Not forgotten,
Just held as treasures
Among the adventures,
Captured in his time.
Now,
He's watching, from the window,
Down, out on the street,
From the third Floor.

It's raining,
He's leaning against the wide white window.
He thought he saw her running in the rain.
But he thinks he sees her everyday.
She’s deep in his heart
Even though
She's really not there.
It's part of the art of his mind.
He's watching,
Behind the pink roses,
On the white table,
Beside the wide white window,
Down, out on the street,
From the third Floor.
And they're calling his name,
"It's time for dinner,
We're not coming for you again."
The art of his life are the loves
He's lost,
What he left behind.
He's watching, from the window,
Down, out on the street,
From the third floor.