𝔖𝔞𝔫𝔠𝔱𝔦𝔣𝔦𝔢𝔡 𝔰𝔦𝔠𝔨𝔫𝔢𝔰𝔖

[Verse 1] A wine-drowned monarch, lacquered in laughter, creases carved deeper with every disguise, yet everyone knows when the midnight convulses that gold-plated halos can’t muffle the cries. The chamber that cages a heart is too narrow, no sigils, no names etched inside of its frame— and somewhere beneath all the theater and titles, we quietly recognize we’re all the same. [Chorus] This fever of verse—this virulent yearning, a sanctified sickness, contagious and bright— it spreads like delirium, sweet dissonance burning, a crooked-limbed melody threading the night. It seeps to the marrow, it sings in the hollow, unbidden, unbroken, it won’t be denied— one flicker of spirit ignites into wildfire, and leaps from a soul into souls multiplied. [Verse 2] A king softly humming in brazen indifference, his rhetoric reckless, indulgent, obscene— yet caught in the margins, a fracture, a flicker, a glimpse of the lonely behind the routine. I turn from the moment, pretend I don’t see it, that tremor of truth in the slope of his spine— like watching a god briefly falter in silence, then dressing the wound with a lie dressed as fine. [Pre-Chorus] Pulled by the pulse of his elegant illness, I drift to his orbit, unspoken, aligned— the clapping grows tender, the hush stretches longer, as if time itself lingers, half-drunk on the bind. [Bridge] “Damn it”—the utterance fractures like scripture, not war but a vow etched in breath and in bone— not fearless, not fearless… just endlessly moving, a lone spark insisting it won’t be alone. No mortal was fashioned for winter’s affection, no skin meant to cradle the cold like a throne— I only concluded, in quiet defiance, that warmth is a myth we insist on our own. [Pre-Chorus] The hush-born affliction, the softest of echoes— the king’s silent symptom… it might just be me. Too sweet to be sickness, too lucid for curing, no antibodies, no will to be free. [Chorus] This fever of verse—this exquisite infection, it spreads through the sovereign, it spreads into me— we shoulder the same unseen, spectral gravity, bound by a weight we refuse to unsee. (It spreads… it spreads…) (A luminous illness… it spreads…) [Outro] And bearing its fractures, its delicate fractures, we wake to the dawn— still burning.