Three of Swords

Lyrics

It doesn’t arrive with a timpani crash,
It isn't a drama of splinter and glass.
It’s the click of a latch, it’s a draft in the room,
It’s the sudden, ridiculous quiet of truth.
Fact one is the jacket, fact two is the key,
Fact three is the space where the future would sleep.

The mind is an engine that hates a straight line,
It wants a distraction, a riddle, a sign.
But the tableau is empty. The background is bare.
Just the absolute absolute absolute there.

Three lines of steel through the center of the chest.
No argument offered, no time to catch breath.
Just a single red heart, suspended and pinned,
While the heavy grey clouds drop their rain in the wind.
It is violently geometric. 
It perfectly hurts.

The cortex is desperate to alter the math,
To map out an alternate, blood-saving act.
If I study the syntax, if I parse out the tone,
If I stare at the eight-fourteen text on the phone.
But there's nothing to decode in the shape of the rain,
Just the sterile, immaculate logic of ache.

The pattern-recognition is spinning its wheels,
It's trying to intellectualize how the cut feels.
But the tableau is empty. The background is bare.
Just the absolute absolute absolute there.

Three lines of steel through the center of the chest.
No argument offered, no time to catch breath.
Just a single red heart, suspended and pinned,
While the heavy grey clouds drop their rain in the wind.
It is violently geometric. 
It perfectly hurts.

It is only a weather front passing us by.
It is only a cumulative drop from the sky.
The barometer falls and the storm will abate,
But the knowledge of that doesn't lessen the weight.
The cuts are so clean they don't even bleed yet.
It’s the clearest your vision has been since we met.

Three swords.
One heart.
A deluge of grey.
And the weather just...