Verse 1 The ancient boughs are exhaling a sibilant tongue, Archaic phonetics from lungs never young. The loam is convulsing where no foot should tread, A rhythmic percussion—the march of the dead. A shadow distorts, a jagged silhouette, A stain on the ether, a debt to be met. The atmosphere curdles, heavy as lead, The silence is screaming what cannot be said. Chorus It is not the lunar pull that commands their black tide, Nor the shroud of the midnight where their infamies hide. They are pulsing and breathing, an architecture of bone, But when the veil thinned... you were always alone. Verse 2 A sub-harmonic tremor, a low, guttural grind, A sound like the snapping of a desperate mind. The firmament glimmers, indifferent and vast, As the terror of instinct is anchored and cast. Incised in the obsidian, a flash of white ivory, A faceless devotion to a carnivore’s library. These cathedrals of pine are their hallowed estate, Where the human condition is merely the bait. Pre-Chorus You dismissed them as fables, as nursery rhymes, Paper-thin legends from primitive times. But folklore is forged where the bone starts to crack, And the marks in the marrow... they don't grow back. Chorus It is not the lunar pull that commands their black tide, Nor the shroud of the midnight where their infamies hide. They are pulsing and breathing, an architecture of bone, But when the veil thinned... you were always alone. Bridge The forest is humming its gluttonous hymn, A banquet prepared for the phantom and whim. Accelerate, darling—they savor the flight, The nectar of panic in the chill of the night. Your pulse is the metronome, frantic and thin, Keeping time with the devil who’s under your skin. Coda (The Final Act) They are the ink in the dark. They are the snap of the spark. The chase is the ritual. The end is perpetual. (Whispered) Curtain down.
