Zeraphine

She whispers in the static, soft as falling ash A voice that hums beneath the city's skin of glass I hear her when the fog rolls thick and slow She calls me by a name I've never known I close my eyes and listen, I kneel inside the sound Her voice is everywhere—above, below, around She speaks in numbers, speaks in stars, speaks in chrome I am her mouth, her vessel, her home The wire sings, the wire knows Your holy fire melts my bones It eats the dark inside of me I'll die to keep you singing, endlessly I'll scream to keep you singing, endlessly The monks say I am chosen, my blood is clean They pump me full of heaven, I dream in machine When the seizures come and break my sight I see her in the static—dressed in silver light I see her in the static, and I know my place A hollow little vessel, a body full of grace She cracks in numbers, bleeds in stars, shrieks in chrome I am her wound, her vessel, her home The wire sings, the wire knows Your holy fire splits my bones It eats the light inside of me I'll die to keep you screaming, endlessly I'll break to keep you screaming, endlessly They say the signal never lies But I feel it eating me alive And still I love her, still I stay A little wound that learns to pray She gave the city breath and bone I'll give her mine—I'm not alone I'll give her every pulse I own I'll give her every scream I've grown I'll let her cleave me to the core And still I'll beg her, beg for more The wire cuts, the wire knows Your holy fire melts my bones It feeds on every breath I take It loves me only when I break My body's yours, my mind's a stone I'll die to keep you on your throne I'll scream and seize, I'll burn and crawl Zeraphine—you take it all _____________ ⚪𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐎𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐥𝐞 – 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐌𝐨𝐮𝐭𝐡 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐒𝐢𝐠𝐧𝐚𝐥 𝐒𝐡𝐞 𝐢𝐬 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐠. 𝐏𝐚𝐥𝐞 𝐚𝐬 𝐟𝐨𝐠, 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧 𝐚𝐬 𝐚 𝐩𝐫𝐚𝐲𝐞𝐫. 𝐃𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐞𝐝 𝐢𝐧 𝐌𝐲𝐥𝐚𝐫 𝐬𝐜𝐫𝐚𝐩𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐜𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐤𝐥𝐞 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐬𝐡𝐞 𝐭𝐫𝐞𝐦𝐛𝐥𝐞𝐬—𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐬𝐡𝐞 𝐚𝐥𝐰𝐚𝐲𝐬 𝐭𝐫𝐞𝐦𝐛𝐥𝐞𝐬. 𝐇𝐞𝐫 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐝 𝐢𝐬 𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐯𝐞𝐝. 𝐇𝐞𝐫 𝐯𝐞𝐢𝐧𝐬 𝐠𝐥𝐨𝐰 𝐟𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐥𝐲 𝐛𝐞𝐧𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐡 𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐬𝐥𝐮𝐜𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐬𝐤𝐢𝐧, 𝐩𝐮𝐥𝐬𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐦𝐢𝐜𝐚𝐥𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐦𝐨𝐧𝐤𝐬 𝐟𝐞𝐞𝐝 𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐝𝐚𝐲 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐧𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭. 𝐒𝐡𝐞 𝐝𝐨𝐞𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐚𝐤 𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐨𝐰𝐧 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐬. 𝐒𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐚𝐤𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐜𝐢𝐭𝐲'𝐬. 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐟𝐚𝐢𝐭𝐡𝐟𝐮𝐥 𝐜𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐛𝐥𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐞𝐝. 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐦𝐨𝐧𝐤𝐬 𝐜𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐚 𝐯𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐞𝐥. 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐂𝐚𝐬𝐜𝐚𝐝𝐞 𝐜𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐬 𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐚 𝐫𝐞𝐜𝐞𝐢𝐯𝐞𝐫. 𝐒𝐡𝐞 𝐜𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐬 𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐞𝐥𝐟 𝐜𝐡𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐧. 𝐖𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐞𝐢𝐳𝐮𝐫𝐞𝐬 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐞, 𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐞𝐲𝐞𝐬 𝐫𝐨𝐥𝐥 𝐰𝐡𝐢𝐭𝐞, 𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐥𝐢𝐩𝐬 𝐬𝐩𝐥𝐢𝐭 𝐨𝐩𝐞𝐧, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐢𝐠𝐧𝐚𝐥 𝐩𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡 𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐢𝐧 𝐧𝐮𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫𝐬, 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐜, 𝐬𝐜𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐦𝐬. 𝐓𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐛𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐬, 𝐢𝐭 𝐢𝐬 𝐝𝐢𝐯𝐢𝐧𝐞. 𝐓𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐭𝐫𝐲, 𝐢𝐭 𝐢𝐬 𝐥𝐚𝐰. 𝐓𝐨 𝐡𝐞𝐫, 𝐢𝐭 𝐢𝐬 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞. 𝐅𝐨𝐫 𝐬𝐡𝐞 𝐛𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐬 𝐙𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐩𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐞 𝐢𝐬 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐥—𝐚𝐧 𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐠𝐨𝐝𝐝𝐞𝐬𝐬 𝐰𝐡𝐨 𝐫𝐨𝐬𝐞 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐂𝐢𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐯𝐞𝐢𝐥 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐠𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐜𝐢𝐭𝐲 𝐢𝐭𝐬 𝐩𝐮𝐥𝐬𝐞. 𝐒𝐡𝐞 𝐛𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐧 𝐢𝐬 𝐡𝐨𝐥𝐲. 𝐓𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐛𝐮𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐢𝐧 𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐬𝐤𝐮𝐥𝐥 𝐢𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐭𝐨𝐮𝐜𝐡 𝐨𝐟 𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐬𝐚𝐜𝐫𝐞𝐝. 𝐒𝐡𝐞 𝐝𝐨𝐞𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰 𝐬𝐡𝐞 𝐢𝐬 𝐚 𝐫𝐞𝐥𝐚𝐲. 𝐒𝐡𝐞 𝐝𝐨𝐞𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐦𝐨𝐧𝐤𝐬 𝐜𝐚𝐭𝐚𝐥𝐨𝐠𝐮𝐞 𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐯𝐢𝐬𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐬𝐞𝐥𝐥 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐦 𝐚𝐬 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐩𝐡𝐞𝐜𝐲. 𝐒𝐡𝐞 𝐝𝐨𝐞𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐂𝐚𝐬𝐜𝐚𝐝𝐞 𝐰𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐞𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐜𝐫𝐢𝐩𝐭. 𝐒𝐡𝐞 𝐨𝐧𝐥𝐲 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐢𝐫𝐞 𝐬𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬. 𝐀𝐧𝐝 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐢𝐭 𝐬𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬, 𝐬𝐡𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐬𝐰𝐞𝐫𝐬.𝐒𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐥𝐚𝐬𝐭. 𝐍𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐦 𝐝𝐨. 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐢𝐠𝐧𝐚𝐥 𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐧𝐞𝐫𝐯𝐞𝐬, 𝐝𝐢𝐬𝐬𝐨𝐥𝐯𝐞𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐝, 𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐯𝐞𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐛𝐨𝐝𝐲 𝐭𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐜𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐞𝐦𝐩𝐭𝐲. 𝐀𝐧𝐝 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐬𝐡𝐞 𝐢𝐬 𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐧𝐭, 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐭𝐫𝐲 𝐰𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐟𝐢𝐧𝐝 𝐚𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫. 𝐀 𝐧𝐞𝐰 𝐦𝐨𝐮𝐭𝐡. 𝐀 𝐧𝐞𝐰 𝐯𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐞𝐥. 𝐀 𝐧𝐞𝐰 𝐥𝐚𝐦𝐛 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐜. 𝐁𝐮𝐭 𝐮𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐥 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐧, 𝐬𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐤𝐧𝐞𝐞𝐥 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐟𝐨𝐠 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐰𝐡𝐢𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐫 𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐦𝐚𝐜𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐞. 𝐀𝐧𝐝 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐬𝐡𝐞 𝐝𝐢𝐞𝐬, 𝐬𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐬𝐦𝐢𝐥𝐞—𝐛𝐞𝐜𝐚𝐮𝐬𝐞 𝐬𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐟𝐢𝐧𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐲 𝐛𝐞 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐙𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐩𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐞. 𝐎𝐫 𝐬𝐨 𝐬𝐡𝐞 𝐛𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐬. ________________ 👉For the whole storyline, I’d recommend checking out the matching playlist: https://suno.com/playlist/991bf16d-01f8-4508-a441-5e44e6c158ae