Verse 1 Words have weight now. Every syllable coated in bitumen, sticking to the roof of the mouth. When we speak of you, Lucifer, the sentences come out slow and black, dripping from lips like oil from a ruptured engine. The taste is asphalt and spent matches and childhood promises burned to carbon. Pre-Chorus Our tongues have become roads to nowhere. Chorus Speak and choke on tar. Speak and drown in the black runoff of your betrayal. Angels spit petroleum hymns, Lucifer— each curse a slick feather floating on an inland sea of grief. Verse 2 Gabriel tries to prophesy comfort; the prophecy emerges as bubbling crude. Michael’s battle cries come out as creosote smoke. Raphael’s blessings drip like roof tar in summer heat, burning skin they were meant to soothe. Bridge We have learned not to speak your name lightly. Each utterance costs us another layer of tongue. Verse 3 Depression is the tar pit. We are the creatures caught mid-struggle, still screaming centuries later. Death is the paleontologist who will one day dig us up and call us beautiful tragedies. Outro Tongue of tar. Mouth full of night. Still trying to say “I forgive you.”
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