The Alabaster Pact

Start with sustained dissonant synths and unsettling, minimal percussion, The arrangement features abrupt stops where the band freezes, punctuated by the crowd’s tense silence and eerie, delayed echoes, Sporadic, distorted guitar and metallic percussion add suspense, maintaining horror atmosphere

I wanted to stay. That was all.
To watch roses bloom without shaking hands.
To walk among marble angels and not feel anything slip away.
No kingdoms. No songs. No glory.
Just the same garden, year after year, and me still standing in it.
That wish felt harmless.
It was not.

He called the price a trifle.
A sliver. A dewdrop of the soul.
I did not feel it leave.
That was the first lie.
Now the dewdrop lives inside me. Warm. Rotting. Patient.
The roses bloom too red, like they learned the color from meat.
Their perfume turns metallic on the tongue.
Their thorns find me every time.
They pierce me, and I wait for blood.
But nothing comes.
Only a widening cold, as if the body forgot what it was meant to carry.
The angels have turned their faces.
Their marble eyes follow me.
Always counting.
Always measuring what is left.

Sleep is not sleep anymore.
It is a trapdoor.
I fall into soil, into roots, into mouths that never close.
Give it back. Give it back.
Beneath the garden they whisper. Others like me.
Voices packed into dirt, into stone, into the wet underneath the roses.
Their fingers crawl up my ankles at night.
Cold. Curious. Testing.
The earth glows now.
Worms twist under the bushes, swollen and luminous, splitting and rejoining.
Learning how to suffer without dying.
And He watches.
From rain pooled in the hollow of marble eyes.
From the raven on the sundial that never blinks.
If you listen closely, you can hear His smile.

The lightning does not wait anymore.
It strikes close enough to burn the air.
The statues scream without sound.
The roses tremble.
Their thorns stretch. Reaching. Hungry.
I feel Him inside the clock. Inside the soil. Inside the hollow where my soul should be.
He is done waiting.
He will take the rest.
Not gently. Not quickly.
I walk this garden as something unfinished.
A body time refuses to bury.
The rain will never cleanse this place.
It only preserves it.
Preserves me.
Kept. Kept. Kept.
This is not immortality.
This is being kept.

Tick.
Tick.

2210/7500

The rain does not fall here. It presses. It listens. You can feel it, can’t you. Like a hand on the back of your neck. The clock in my hall is still breathing. Tick. Tick. I asked for time. Just a little more. I wanted to stay. That was all. To watch roses bloom without shaking hands. To walk among marble angels and not feel anything slip away. No kingdoms. No songs. No glory. Just the same garden, year after year, and me still standing in it. That wish felt harmless. It was not. He called the price a trifle. A sliver. A dewdrop of the soul. I did not feel it leave. That was the first lie. Now the dewdrop lives inside me. Warm. Rotting. Patient. The roses bloom too red, like they learned the color from meat. Their perfume turns metallic on the tongue. Their thorns find me every time. They pierce me, and I wait for blood. But nothing comes. Only a widening cold, as if the body forgot what it was meant to carry. The angels have turned their faces. Their marble eyes follow me. Always counting. Always measuring what is left. Sleep is not sleep anymore. It is a trapdoor. I fall into soil, into roots, into mouths that never close. Give it back. Give it back. Beneath the garden they whisper. Others like me. Voices packed into dirt, into stone, into the wet underneath the roses. Their fingers crawl up my ankles at night. Cold. Curious. Testing. The earth glows now. Worms twist under the bushes, swollen and luminous, splitting and rejoining. Learning how to suffer without dying. And He watches. From rain pooled in the hollow of marble eyes. From the raven on the sundial that never blinks. If you listen closely, you can hear His smile. The lightning does not wait anymore. It strikes close enough to burn the air. The statues scream without sound. The roses tremble. Their thorns stretch. Reaching. Hungry. I feel Him inside the clock. Inside the soil. Inside the hollow where my soul should be. He is done waiting. He will take the rest. Not gently. Not quickly. I walk this garden as something unfinished. A body time refuses to bury. The rain will never cleanse this place. It only preserves it. Preserves me. Kept. Kept. Kept. This is not immortality. This is being kept. Tick. Tick.

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