Loremother

A gothic folk-blues track in 3/4 time, stripped-down but thunderous, Lead vocal is a rich, breathy alto—raw, reverent, and capable of belting with bone-deep power, Let her voice lead the entire mix: forward, dry, and textured like a sermon scraped from the throat, Use fingerpicked guitar in open minor tuning and a hard-driving upright bassline with melodic movement, Add a deep, hand-beaten drum or floor tom with a grounded, human pulse—something you can stomp or clap to, Let the rhythm march with purpose, but never overwhelm the vocal, In key moments, let the voice rise above it all—belting in grief, fury, or revelation, Bowed strings or cello may swell beneath her like breath or warning, Mid-song, increase dynamic tension: layer in syncopated hand claps or doubled foot percussion, Use brush snare or hand thuds sparingly, Avoid reverb and pads, Keep all textures bone-dry and close to the skin, Let melody bend in rubato, but keep the beat urgent, Emotion builds like a funeral procession

V4.5

I nourished you from my breast
milk warm, unmeasured, no request.  
You drank until the dreaming came,  
then twisted the tale to fit your tongue.

I lent you voice. You made it doctrine.  
Split my lullaby with clean lines and caution.  
Said it came from father’s hand  
but I was there when soil first knew weight.

I don’t correct. I plant and wait.  
The root remembers what you’ve changed.  
  
Your fathers gathered my stories in fistfuls,  
shaved off the skin, stamped their seal.  
Bound them in leather.  
Labeled them sacred.  
Told you I never healed.

But I am not scripture.  
I am bruise and breath.  
The dirt beneath your clean intent.

I swell beneath your marble floors,  
sprout sideways through your rules.  
You paved your faith in slate and lime  
but even dust remembers womb.

I watched Nun ripple,  
cradled Gaia’s ache.  
Skinned Ymir clean 
left Marrow in the wake.

I held the egg before it cracked.  
Fed the fox who swallowed sun.  
You pray to names I whispered first  
then claimed as not my tongue.

Call me what you buried.  
Call me dirt, call me flood.  
I am the first tongue, the breast,  
the blood.

You etched your truths on stolen skin,  
told the children it was birthright.  
Named my milk a mercy,  
then sold it back in script and blight.

You made my labor distant myth  
a woman buried under stone.  
But I was never gone.  
You just mistook my quiet for your own.

I don’t curse you.  
I close my hand.  
Let your borrowed myths disband.

No fire. No flood.  
Just hunger slow and wide 
you’ll starve where my name  
was scraped aside.

I watched Nun sink.  
Gaia split.  
Ymir hollowed, bit by bit.

The egg was cracked.  
The sun been fed.  
Her prayers sound like hollow chew.  
  
Call me what you buried  
I don’t rise. I remain.  
You walk on me daily,  
still forgetting my name.

But when all that’s left is me  
muck and marrow, root and reed
know this:  
your name will not pass through memory.

1980/7500

I nourished you from my breast milk warm, unmeasured, no request. You drank until the dreaming came, then twisted the tale to fit your tongue. I lent you voice. You made it doctrine. Split my lullaby with clean lines and caution. Said it came from father’s hand but I was there when soil first knew weight. I don’t correct. I plant and wait. The root remembers what you’ve changed. Your fathers gathered my stories in fistfuls, shaved off the skin, stamped their seal. Bound them in leather. Labeled them sacred. Told you I never healed. But I am not scripture. I am bruise and breath. The dirt beneath your clean intent. I swell beneath your marble floors, sprout sideways through your rules. You paved your faith in slate and lime but even dust remembers womb. I watched Nun ripple, cradled Gaia’s ache. Skinned Ymir clean left Marrow in the wake. I held the egg before it cracked. Fed the fox who swallowed sun. You pray to names I whispered first then claimed as not my tongue. Call me what you buried. Call me dirt, call me flood. I am the first tongue, the breast, the blood. You etched your truths on stolen skin, told the children it was birthright. Named my milk a mercy, then sold it back in script and blight. You made my labor distant myth a woman buried under stone. But I was never gone. You just mistook my quiet for your own. I don’t curse you. I close my hand. Let your borrowed myths disband. No fire. No flood. Just hunger slow and wide you’ll starve where my name was scraped aside. I watched Nun sink. Gaia split. Ymir hollowed, bit by bit. The egg was cracked. The sun been fed. Her prayers sound like hollow chew. Call me what you buried I don’t rise. I remain. You walk on me daily, still forgetting my name. But when all that’s left is me muck and marrow, root and reed know this: your name will not pass through memory.

0/500