The clouds grew dark as I rolled in
I sat down next to a man with five empty cups in front of him
He said, aren't you a little too young to be alone in these parts?
If being young means completely lost, then I guess I am
The storms carry me home, all over parades
The people call calls from the pouring rain
When you stand on this line, you are not in order
This painting's rarely framed
I'll stand on this line, you are not in order

At the age of six is when I started talking
At the age of ten is when I started walking
They told me I would never get to fully express myself
And any place I wanted to go, I could only go in my mind
So no, the storms carry me home
The storms carry me home, all over parades
The people call calls from the pouring rain
When you stand on this line, you are not in order
This painting's rarely framed
The storms carry me home, all over parades
The people call calls from the pouring rain
When you stand on this line, you are not in order
And any place I wanted to go, I could only go in my mind
This painting's rarely framed
No one has roamed the plains always past my body
And cast the darkest shadow
If I told you where I was heading
You still wouldn't follow
The storms carried me home
Over the parades
The people caught cold
From the pouring rain
When you stand on this land
You are not in order
This painting's never
Framed us together
I'm missing from your pictures these days
*