[Steel drums detonate] [Verse 1] Alone at the table again, 118 elements marching in perfect rank and file I saw the two empty slots and claimed them — J and Q, my private lie, my secret style Ingredients for the meal I cook only for myself in this quiet house The dish that would finally fill the hollow I carry when the lights go out I took the stick and stirred the pot with everything the chart allowed Circling slow at first, then frantic, the broth began to speak aloud Heat climbed the wood until the handle caught and the stirrer turned to flame The very motion seeking wholeness turned to fuel and burned its own name [Hook] Two letters short — the hunger sharpens every time I chase the fix The breath I grip until it slips away, the one I release comes back unmix Two logs lean in to birth the flame, then vanish without a trace One fire where division stood — the fire never knew my face [Verse 2] I fight to float inside my own skull, every muscle locked against the pull below The harder I push to stay on top of my own thoughts, the deeper the water draws me slow Give up the struggle and something shifts — the surface finds me when I cease to row The breath I tried to own escapes, the breath I surrender returns to show The pot is boiling over now, the stick long gone, consumed inside its own design The flame that needed two logs to start has become one undivided shine I stand here stirring nothing, the chef dissolving mid-stir in the brew The meal I cook for myself was always the end of needing something new [Verse 3 — steel drums sharpen, faster rolls slicing like machetes through the mind] The table was always whole — the gaps were how the field played its private game J and Q were never missing, they were the pointer I invented for the name The name I whisper alone at night, the seeker that is the seeking’s only shame The hunger was the field pretending it was hungry for the flame The stick is gone, the pot is fire, the fire is the pot itself The breath is not held or lost, the breath is the breathing’s only wealth I float only when I stop trying to float, I sink only when I fight the sink The surface finds me when I finally quit pretending I control the drink [Bridge — drums strip to skeletal pings, almost nothing, just metal breathing in the void] The stick becomes the flame The flame forgets the stick The breath I clutch dissolves The breath I release comes thick The float I force pulls under The surrender lifts me quick Two letters short was never lack It was the gong It was the click [Final Verse — full steel drum onslaught slams back in, beat locks vicious and unrelenting] Now there is no one left to feed and no one left to cook the meal The house is quiet, the table complete, the hunger has no appeal The J and Q were pointers pointing at the end of every “I” I tried to steal The periodic table was always whole — the gaps were how the field learned to feel I stand here stirring nothing, the chef and the broth the same undivided shine The meal I cooked for myself was always the end of needing to be mine The breath moves without my permission, the float happens without my will The fire burns without the logs, the field knows itself and the field is still [Outro — drums hold the final relentless roll, then cut dead mid-bar] Two letters short. The gong sounds once. The field remains. Complete.
Comments are disabled on this song