You ever hear the story of the second apocalypse? They call it the second apocalypseā¦ But maybe the first one never ended. Maybe we just kept singing through it. Someone strummed the wrong chordā¦ and the dead remembered the sound. āø» I was playing by the river, when the sky forgot its blue, and the wind turned choir singer, āTheyāre coming for you.ā So I sang a little louder, made the chords all bleed, ācause sometimes when youāre haunted, you play the song they need. āø» This aināt no requiem, this aināt no prayer, just the hum of broken people still pretending they care. If you hear me through the ruins, then youāre one of us ā half alive, half dust. āø» You knowā¦ sometimes I think they werenāt chasing us at all. Maybe they just wanted to hear a song. Maybe they missed the sound of somethingā¦ still alive. āø» They said art would die first, but it crawled out of the ground. A band of bones and stories, still chasing the sound. The amps were gone, but hearts still hummed ā each beat a drum, each tear a strum. So if you find this song someday, and the strings still ring a name ā just know, we didnāt play for fame. We played to stay human.
