[Intro] (The sound of a latch lifting. The first clean breath of air. The transition from the damp to the dry.) [Verse 1] I step through the first door. The altitude is a ghost. The chair is a memory of weight leaning toward the soft spot. I step through the second door. The silt is a floor of stone. The river’s debt has dried into a geography of grey. [Pre-Chorus] The hinge is quiet. The clock is heavy. The line is just a mark on the wall. [Chorus] It isn’t the room. It isn’t the wreck. It’s the distance walked to the end of the hall. No heroics. No claim. Just the level of the frame. [Verse 2] I step through the third door. The forest is eating the table. The vine has finished the lock. I feel the green pulse under the arch of my foot. The house is a channel that finally opened. The roof is a sieve for the sun. [Pre-Chorus] The air is moving. The dust is falling. The axis is steady at last. [Bridge] The wood is behind me. The silt is behind me. One, two, three, four. I walk past the table. I walk past the chair. The light on the threshold does not taste of salt. It tastes of the yard. [Final Chorus] It isn’t ascent. It isn’t defeat. It’s walking away on steady feet. No mastery. No throne. Just the level of the frame. [Outro] (The sound of feet hitting gravel. The door closing softly behind.) High tide. Ebb. Ground instead.
