Tape is thunder, a metal heartbeat's flow, crackle roofs, city bones beneath the glow
The projector breathes, where the moon should be, static giants waking up the dead of memory
Behemoth iron breath, wet concrete scent, step like mortar cracking, each footfall leaves a radial roar and a cracked skylight stacking
Cartoon cat, rubber grin, oil slick laugh that peels the night, spools of film for fingers, reels unwind and steal the light
Wandering faith film, smoke prayer, eyes like a scanning tube, it murmurs holy interference
A hymn that warps the truth, creature of the end times, salt and ozone on its tongue
It exhales static hurricanes, the horizon comes undone, not a moon but a projector iris
Mechanical and shy, it clicks, it hums, it stains the clouds with a copied sky
Rust and radio rattle and run, the sky splits like tin, signal snaps, silence snaps back, the reruns begin
Drop to shadow, let the drum bite, let the growl collide, before the hook drops heavy, feel the city flip and slide
Static giants, oh, static giants, oh, static giants, oh, static giants, iris in the sky
Behemoth leaves fissures where prayers used to grow, iron taste dust on the tongue, its footsteps pump old alarms
The subways cough, their song's unsung, cartoon cat drips lacquered laughter, a varnished grin that smells of toy glue
It tapes alleys into flipbooks, flips pages until the corners chew, wandering faith walks with a projector shawl
Its whisper reels the dead to stand, it folds hours into prayer strings, stitches church bells into sand
Creature of the end times, casetide of hush, a static salt mist, its shadow hums like broken chords
The air remembers every missed wish, not a moon, a brass iris blinking, it paints surveillance across the tide
Its light leaves ghost stamps on brick and bone, a photocopy of pride
I watch the towers fall like teeth in my hands, I count the holes in the sky
I feel the ghosts of everything I love float by, I don't know how to cry
We traded lullabies for siren songs, my heartbeat sinks to static lines
I'm walking through the footage of myself, rewound a thousand times
Lost the map, lost the name, I whisper to a projector's eye, the world's a film and I'm the frame
Why is the happy part a lie? Half my friends are credits rolling past in grainy light
I'm half hope, half heartache, singing low into the night
I saw a great white throne and him who sat on it
The throne blinks like a broadcast, heaven and earth flicker flee
Read, reline, and answer back, who keeps the last frame of me?
Giants clash in spectral suits, film-stitched armor, teeth of brass
Shadows pry the light apart, splice the future to the past
Echoes of a judgment channel, a tone like broken bells
We stand on battering rams of light, in the corridor where hope revolves
Static giants, oh
Static giants, oh
Static giants, oh
Static giants, oh
Then I saw a great white throne and him who sat on it
The throne blinks like a broadcast, heaven and earth flicker flee
We read the line and answer back, who keeps the last frame of me?
Tell me which ones to include and I'll weave distinct sensory images
Reach free
