DRAFT :: 00.02, 20-6-20XX
The world turns red beneath our feet,
A choir of chains in discord chimes.
Do you hear it too, that bitter beat?
Or have you grown deaf with time?
They carved their laws into our skin,
Called madness what we dared to feel.
But who decides what lies within?
And who gave them the right to steal?
The world turns red beneath our feet,
A choir of chains in discord chimes.
Do you hear it too, that bitter beat?
Or have you grown deaf with time?
They carved their laws into our skin,
Called madness what we dared to feel.
But who decides what lies within?
And who gave them the right to steal?
DRAFT :: 03.55, 4-12-20XX
Within the shadows where silence screams, it carve wounds into the soul of sound—an orchestra of agony and defiance, laced with the bitter taste of futility. Each word drips like rusted blood from the iron heart of rage, echoing truths too brutal for daylight, too lost for salvation. Their chaos is a ritual, masks hiding the ache beneath skin, where pain becomes a language and scars a kind of memory. The verses cut deep—quiet confessions wrapped in barbed wire—offering a dark comfort to the broken, who bleed not to die, but to feel something real. It is wishes forged in fire, where hope dies quietly, and every scream is a blade in the dark.
Within the shadows where silence screams, it carve wounds into the soul of sound—an orchestra of agony and defiance, laced with the bitter taste of futility. Each word drips like rusted blood from the iron heart of rage, echoing truths too brutal for daylight, too lost for salvation. Their chaos is a ritual, masks hiding the ache beneath skin, where pain becomes a language and scars a kind of memory. The verses cut deep—quiet confessions wrapped in barbed wire—offering a dark comfort to the broken, who bleed not to die, but to feel something real. It is wishes forged in fire, where hope dies quietly, and every scream is a blade in the dark.