(Kick. Snare. Kick. Snare. The dub echo decays into a wet, cavernous space.) (Verse 1) The ledger burns in a basin of brine, The ink is a ghost that will never define, The architecture of iron and clay, Dissolves in the gray of a vanishing day. We built up the walls with a fifty-fold name, We played at the king and we played at the game, But the salt in the water, the dark in the deep, Has secrets the empire can never keep. (Chorus) Tiamat calls from the belly of void, The structures of ego are finally destroyed, No master, no monument, no rigid decree, Just the pulse of the tide and the salt of the sea. (Echo: The sea... the sea...) (Bridge - Hyper-Dense Trochaic Tetrameter) In the cellular coil of the absolute light, Where the friction of matter is biting the night, We are stripping the gear and the piston of soul, To return to the fragment that makes up the whole. With a systematic, dogmatic, erratic release, We are finding the center, the silence, the peace, In a hyper-kinetic, pathetic, magnetic display, Of the vanity built on the rot and the gray. For the analytical, critical, cynical mind, Is a barrier structure we’re leaving behind, With a mathematical, tactical, practical flaw, In the heart of the engine, the teeth of the law. Every syllable, cynical, lyrical thread, Is a ghost of a notion inside of the head, In a rapid, tectonic, ironic, phonic descent, To the point where the ego is finally spent. It’s a kinetic, prosthetic, synthetic machine, Cleaning the slate of the things that have been, In a massive, expansive, obsessive design, Tracing the arc of the primitive line, With a rhythmic, algorithmic, prismatic flow, Down to the deep where the currents are slow, Where the biological, logical, mystical core, Doesn’t remember the weight of the war. It’s a radical, practical, tactical shift, In the tectonic plate of the continental drift, With a static, emphatic, dramatic retreat, From the rhythm that pulses in fingers and feet, To the silent, resilient, brilliant expanse, Of the Tiamat rhythm, the oceanic dance, Where the definition, partition, condition of self, Is a dusty old book on a forgotten shelf. In a complex, convex, reflex, flexive state, We are bypassing all of the mirrors of fate, With a structural, fractural, actual turn, Watching the paper of history burn, In a hollow, follow, wallow, swallow of space, Where the ego loses its name and its face, It’s a terminal, vernal, eternal, nocturnal relief, To be stripped of the burden of ancient belief, With an electrical, mystical, physical hum, To the beat of the deep, and the beat of the drum, In a frantic, semantic, pedantic parade, Of the debts that the architects never have paid, We are burning the ledger, the wedge, and the wall, To answer the silence, to answer the call, Of the uncarved block, of the salt-water sea, Where the only thing left is to finally be, Not the king, not the scribe, not the light on the shore, Just the dark, and the pulse, and the deep, and the core. (The bridge crashes into a wall of reverb.) (Verse 2) The straw dogs are cast in the flood of the years, We shed all the weight of the accumulated fears, The fifty names vanish like breath on the pane, And nothing is lost and nothing is gain. The Tao is the current that knows not the hill, The movement of water, the absolute still, We surrender the crown, we surrender the rod, To the vastness of Tiamat, the nameless, the god. (Chorus) Tiamat calls from the belly of void, The structures of ego are finally destroyed, No master, no monument, no rigid decree, Just the pulse of the tide and the salt of the sea. (Outro) (The dub beat thins out. Just the kick, then nothing.) One. (Echo: One... one... one...) Salt. (Echo: Salt... salt... salt...) Still. (Silence)
