07. Pagan gods of air water fire

[Verse 1] Fire, wind, and water— the old-time gods laughing in slow spirals shaped you. They didn’t give you company. They gave you distance. A body made to stand alone. Anyone who touched you— their blood lit up, want crawled through them like summer flies. You didn’t ask for that. You just carried it. [Verse 2] Fire, wind, and water— same crooked gods— they passed the fever to me. I started writing like I was burning, breathing, flooding. Like I was helping make you too. But your face— it isn’t blood. It isn’t skin. It isn’t hunger. It’s a dark cedar island after midnight. Blue-edged. Far out. Lonely enough to echo. Rough hands keep reaching for you, but you keep slipping— back into dirt, back into tide. And me— I’m fading too. Drifting into star-shadow off some distant island no map admits. Fire. Wind. Water. [Instrumental / Vocal Hum] (Ooh—ooh—ooh) [Verse 3] Scatter the seeds of shape— let them fall everywhere. Scatter the seeds of dreaming— watch them break open. Still I wonder: where are you tonight? Why can’t the world recognize the shadow you cast— that cedar-island shadow— that human shape the earth keeps trying to remember? [Outro] Handled by rough hands— handled again and again. Fire, wind, water— the old gods crack up laughing. Handled—handled— till everything turns into meat, till it all starts smelling wrong. I laugh too— inside that thunder-laugh. The dark sea swells. A massive whale goes under, body sinking slow. All the forms we worship end up like that— too big to save, too dead to deny. Wherever I go, I walk through those seas— meteors overhead, wreckage below. And somehow— it all feels natural. Terribly natural. (Mmm—mmm—mmm)