I've made it months, even years, in solitude's embrace
but Nothing has shown me what I cannot create.
Stuck on this compendium of mortality,
a line without a flaw.
I can never bring the life back to his withered breast,
dead at 18 years, now my head's a fucking mess.
Everyone is waiting for the end of the line.
Immutable truth
There is nothing that can take what is dead
There is nothing that can take what is dead and make it 
green
There is nothing that can take what is dead and convince 
it to grow
Vessel is deserted (dirt)
Capillaries dry (holds)
the world soldiers onward (no)
the line is absolute (sway)
Lament's only verdict (over)
the line is absolute (me)
No sway over me.