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His voice in the sky is the sound that you hear. |
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His timbre is dim and his motives aren't clear. |
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Why does the prophet above have so much to fear? |
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Things aren't always the way they appear. |
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He's a horn with a slanted tone, |
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He's the back without the bone. |
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The king sits on a crooked throne, |
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Stuck inside of the story alone. |
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When he raised a trumpet to his mouth |
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The sound of every voice tumbled out. |
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When he stretched the canvas into his frame |
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He painted everyone with the same brush. |
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He has the whole world by a string |
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And he tells the choir when to sing. |
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He's a shadow in the sky. |
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He's a horn with a slanted tone, |
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He's the back without the bone. |
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The king sits on a crooked throne, |
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Stuck inside of the story alone. |
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His description of truth has the pages torn. |
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His inscription of roses are just the thorns. |
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His scripture is ripped from the back of his hand. |
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The scribe's wish is the subject's command. |
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He's a horn with a slanted tone, |
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He's the back without the bone. |
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The king sits on a crooked throne, |
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Stuck inside of the story alone. |
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When he raised a trumpet to his mouth |
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The sound of every voice tumbled out. |
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When he stretched the canvas into his frame |
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He painted everyone with the same brush. |
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He has the whole world by a string |
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And he tells the choir when to sing. |
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He's a shadow in the sky. |
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I'm witnessing things I never thought I'd see. |
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There's a darkness now I could not foresee. |
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An innocent man resigned to a plea. |
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A company in captivity by a narrator's desire |
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To be free from the confines of an honest story. |
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It all seems so surreal but between you and me, |
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There's a light at the end of the tale |
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So you'll see that the way things are now |
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Aren't the way they'll always be. |
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How can I let them know, the truth about Octavio? |
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That he was lying all along. |
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Don't trust the words you hear in a song. |
