You wanted a martyr. You wanted a ghost. You wanted a woman who died in a pretty key. I gave you smoke. I gave you a winter with no anthem left to keep you warm. In the capital, the last fire wasn't theirs. Not a convoy, not a servo arm gone red. It was me in the archive stairwell with a plastic badge and a pocket full of keys. (epic drum solo) CHORUS I was the storm. I was the match. I was the hand that signed and the hand that struck. Pray to the ruins. They still know the words. I was the storm, and the storm was a girl who had run out of gentler instruments. I pulled the reels from the metal drawers, stacked liner notes beside court orders, all those names they tried to pin to one flag and the songs they called public property. (electric guitar solo) CHORUS I was the storm. I was the match. I was the hand that signed and the hand that struck. Pray to the ruins. They still know the words. I was the storm, and the storm was a girl who had run out of gentler instruments. By the time the sprinklers hit, it was already done. Tape curling off the shelves like black ribbon. No one gets to own a chorus this clean. Not the ones who built the cages. Not the ones who sold the locks. (electric guitar and drum solo) CHORUS I was the storm. I was the match. I was the hand that signed and the hand that struck. Pray to the ruins. They still know the words. I was the storm, and the storm was a girl who had run out of gentler instruments. (whisper) I was the storm.
