It was a slow and simple poison I never called it by its name A private, silent, growing fracture A permanent and shifting blame A weighted knot, a permanent shifting blame The moment wasn't in the leaving The moment lives inside a breath Where every single silent failure Stood and testified to death I held a vision made of vapor This fury has no forward path It turns, it circles, finds the center And writes its own epitaph At the vanishing point, where all colors run I would be the fixed mark Under a cold, forgetful sun At the vanishing point, where all colors run I would be the fixed mark Until the final thread was spun A tower built of air and promise A gallery of one repeated ache A final, fatal inclination For every good thing left to break To break, for every good thing left to break And when the weather of the spirit Finally inverted in the sky I had no shelter from the climate I had constructed, eye to eye I held a vision carved in water I held a purpose, sharp and lean Not this residue of echo Scoured clean by what I've seen At the vanishing point, where all colors run I would be the fixed mark Under a cold, forgetful sun At the vanishing point, where all colors run I would be the fixed mark Until the final thread was spun At the vanishing point, where all colors run I would be the fixed mark Under a cold, forgetful sun At the vanishing point, where all colors run I would be the fixed mark A vigil kept for no one
