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Lyrics
(Verse 1)
Thirty-eight past the third hour of a frozen state
The stars aligned to lock the gate.
A silver pen in a tilted hand
Sketching maps of a nameless land.
I see the friction where the colors bleed
The math of a soul, the silent speed.
The air is velvet, the sound is sharp
A synesthetic hum on a jagged harp.
(Chorus)
I am the logic in a house of glass
Watching the ghosts of the giants pass.
One took the exit, a quiet door
Leaving a weight on the cellar floor.
One was a garden where the weeds grew cold
Turning the silver back into mold.
And the third is a fire that will not die
Burning under an ash-gray sky.
(Verse 2)
I am the pillar in the shifting sand
With the blueprint of sorrow in my palm.
I feel the pulse of the breaking wire
The empathy of a funeral pyre.
The world is a frequency I can’t quite catch
A locked-out heart with a rusted latch.
But where the old trees know my ghost
The stranger is finally the host.
(Bridge)
Patterns of indigo, lines of salt
I carry the burden of every fault.
A precise alignment of fractured parts
The coldest brain for the warmest hearts.
(Chorus)
I am the logic in a house of glass
Watching the ghosts of the giants pass.
The blueprint is blood, the ink is bone
Building a temple I inhabit alone.
(Outro)
February’s echo.
The left-handed light.
An engineer of the infinite night.
Abstracted.
Connected.
Found in the blur.
The observer of all
That we ever were.
Details
GeneratedApr 27, 2026
Duration3:38
LanguageEnglish
Style
Hypnotic Deep House. Pulsing bass, moody cello. A raw, gravelly baritone—fragile yet powerful. Global melancholic soul.
Credits
Prompt by
Symmetry
SymmetryModelAria v5.5
