Eleventh Hour

90's hip hop, soul, meditative, melancholic, west coast hip hop, somber, sad, ‑female vocals, ‑back vocals

[instrumental]

[verse 1]
Time is a thief in a two-faced watch tick-tocking between deception and declaration, I am late says the hour when the truth is I'm early for my own obituary, already digging graves between the seconds, planting cadaver clocks where flowers should grow. Now read this backwards: grow should Flowers where clocks cadaver, planting seconds the between graves digging already obituary own my for early I'm truth the when hour the says late am I deception and declaration between tick-tocking watch two-faced a in thief a is time. Caught in this palindrome prison, I'm the guard and getaway driver, filling out my own wanted poster with yesterday's fingerprints, tomorrow's alibi, a paradox paroled to repeat itself like a notation poet backwards, here's my confession written in disappearing ink on self-destructing paper: "read between the lines not yet written" -- these are my last words until my next first breath, when I'll rewind the womb's recording and commit suicide in reverse, becoming unborn as the midwife cries "death first!" and my dying  scream is a baby crying "hello it's me I've come back to leave"

[instrumental]

[verse 2]
Eleventh hour, she stands on the clock tower ledge holding scissors and string, cutting the cord that ties the hour hand to the hanging man's neck, severing determinism from chromatic codescending syllables that split infinities with precision of a splitting atom's personal ad: "Single nihilist seeks same for annihilating dance at end of rope/time. Swipe left on existence. Bring matches." But listen -- beneath the tick, behind the tock, between the ticktock's lockstep rhyme there's another sound: the voice of a childhood watch that never learned to speak in numbers, only in echoes of promised summers that never came, but always are still coming, still coming, still... Clockwork angels with rusted wings perch on my shoulders, one whispering "tempus fugit" the other "tempus forget about it" while I, Icarus with a stopwatch instead of wings, calculate exactly how long it takes to fall upward into the hourglass

[instrumental]

2105/7500

[instrumental] [verse 1] Time is a thief in a two-faced watch tick-tocking between deception and declaration, I am late says the hour when the truth is I'm early for my own obituary, already digging graves between the seconds, planting cadaver clocks where flowers should grow. Now read this backwards: grow should Flowers where clocks cadaver, planting seconds the between graves digging already obituary own my for early I'm truth the when hour the says late am I deception and declaration between tick-tocking watch two-faced a in thief a is time. Caught in this palindrome prison, I'm the guard and getaway driver, filling out my own wanted poster with yesterday's fingerprints, tomorrow's alibi, a paradox paroled to repeat itself like a notation poet backwards, here's my confession written in disappearing ink on self-destructing paper: "read between the lines not yet written" -- these are my last words until my next first breath, when I'll rewind the womb's recording and commit suicide in reverse, becoming unborn as the midwife cries "death first!" and my dying scream is a baby crying "hello it's me I've come back to leave" [instrumental] [verse 2] Eleventh hour, she stands on the clock tower ledge holding scissors and string, cutting the cord that ties the hour hand to the hanging man's neck, severing determinism from chromatic codescending syllables that split infinities with precision of a splitting atom's personal ad: "Single nihilist seeks same for annihilating dance at end of rope/time. Swipe left on existence. Bring matches." But listen -- beneath the tick, behind the tock, between the ticktock's lockstep rhyme there's another sound: the voice of a childhood watch that never learned to speak in numbers, only in echoes of promised summers that never came, but always are still coming, still coming, still... Clockwork angels with rusted wings perch on my shoulders, one whispering "tempus fugit" the other "tempus forget about it" while I, Icarus with a stopwatch instead of wings, calculate exactly how long it takes to fall upward into the hourglass [instrumental]

0/500