The Grid Holds

[Verse 1]
The last warp-thread pulled tight by the Spree.
Thirteen weeks of winter; now the pattern's free.
Cold from the concrete floor seeps through the socks,
We step back from the loom, behind the chalk marks.

[Chorus]
And the grid holds, a perfect lattice, bright.
Every dust mote catches the golden hour light.
The grid holds, a tensile, coloured breath.
A weightless structure built to stand against the rest.

[Verse 2]
Remember January and the unravelled skein?
The pigment bleed that looked just like a rust stain.
We cut the loss and started the first row,
A silent language only our two hands know.

[Chorus]
And the grid holds, a perfect lattice, bright.
Every dust mote catches the golden hour light.
The grid holds, a tensile, coloured breath.
A weightless structure built to stand against the rest.

[Bridge]
"Look," you said, your voice a dusty hum,
"The colour holds the sun now that it's done."

[Final Chorus]
And the grid holds, a perfect lattice, bright.
(All the hours, all the hours in the light)
Every dust mote catches the golden hour light.
(Now it's done, now it's done, now it's done)
The grid holds, a tensile, coloured breath.
(A different kind of strength)
A weightless structure built to stand against the rest.

[Outro]
Just the efflorescence of the thread.
The final quiet after all we said.