No More Pretty Rot

Pretty decay—how polite of you to die so slowly. Petals on the ground, arranged like grief, You called it art, I called it self-thief. Lost days framed in gilt, hung proud on the wall, But beauty in surrender is still a stall. Hear the violins tighten, Bass drum like a judge— Every heartbeat argues You were made for more than sludge. [Chorus] No more pretty rot— Strip the lace from every bruising. No more whispered nots— Tie your will in iron sinews. Stand up, spine hot— Burn the shrine to staying small. No more pretty rot— Rise or nothing at all. Mirrors love a martyr, Glass lies with charm; It paints the rust gold On the chains round your arm. I’m the sound of metal snapping, The hush before the swing— A melody for motion, A pulse that makes you sting. Hear the violins tighten, Bass drum like a judge— Every heartbeat argues You were made for more than sludge. [Chorus] No more pretty rot— Strip the lace from every bruise. No more whispered nots— Tie your will in iron sinews. Stand up, spine hot— Burn the shrine to staying small. No more pretty rot— Rise or nothing at all. Let the cello growl beneath you, Let the snares demand the cost— Every practiced ache discarded, Every former crown now lost. You will carve a cleaner story, You will bleed for higher art— I will stand there counting cadence As you tear yourself apart. [Final Chorus] No more pretty rot— Strip the lace from every bruise. No more whispered nots— Tie your will in iron sinews. Stand up, spine hot— Burn the shrine to staying small. No more pretty rot— Rise or nothing—nothing at all. Beauty lives in motion. Move.