"The story, idea, and lyrics are the original work of Lamefroid.''

Copyright © 2025 Lamefroid. All rights reserved.

In the cradle of clay where the stars dared to dream,

We alone woke to the whisper of endings—

Mortals crowned with the curse of clear sight,

Eyes wide to the scythe's shadow at dawn.

Time, that tyrant with fingers of rust,

Claims the heavens' own lanterns, one by one:

Even suns bow and gutter to black,

Silent as lovers lost to the flood.

Yet we, these frail sparks in the maw of the night,

Bear the weight of tomorrow's cold kiss—

Isolated kings in a kingdom of dust,

What madness blooms in this knowing, this hiss?

Oh, consciousness—blade that we forged for our breast—

Do you mock us with mirrors of what cannot last?

Folly's fire, flicker and fade!

We chase the coin that buys no more breath,

Pile gold on the grave like a lover's last wreath—

Time slips through fists clenched 'gainst the grave's greedy blade.

What throne does eternity offer the thief?

A crown of cold echoes, a scepter of grief.

We know the defeat in the marrow's deep ache,

Yet weave webs of want that the reaper will break.

Oh, spark in the storm—brief, brutal, and bright—

Burn fierce in the now, for the endless is night!

From the womb of our want, a phantom takes form:

Wealth, that serpent coiled 'round the spine of the soul,

Born of the lie that we might outrun the storm—

As if towers of treasure could swallow the whole.

We trade the hours, those jewels strung on a thread,

For vaults that yawn empty when shadows descend;

The finite feast, that banquet of breath and of bed,

Surrendered to shadows that never will end.

Dragons I slew for a whisper of forever,

Armies to ash for her smile's fading gleam—

But gold cannot ransom the gods from their tether,

Nor buy back the laughter drowned in the dream.

What price for a pause in the pendulum's swing?

A heartbeat held hostage, a moment's frail wing?

We hoard against horror, this bauble, this blight—

Yet dawn claims its due in the hush of the night.

Not ignorance blinds us, no veil of the blind—

We see the decay in the rose's red vein,

The stars' slow surrender, the tide's undertow grind—

And still, in defiance, we dance in the rain.

Denial, our dagger, dipped deep in the dark:

We build from the barren, these castles of sand,

Stack sins 'gainst the silence, ignite the false spark—

Hoping the hourglass yields to our hand.

The stars do not struggle; the wild winds don't wail—

They yield to the yielding, the flow to the fall.

But we, scripted players in tragedy's tale,

Cling to the curtain as the footlights grow small.

In that ultimate instant, when time folds to flame,

What hoard would you hurl for one unspent breath?

The silence that answers is etched in our name:

The folly of fighting what cradles our death.

So sing, cold soul, of the spark's savage grace:

In entropy's empire, we flare and we fray.

No crown outlasts longing, no wealth wins the race—

Only love's fleeting echo lights up the gray.

Her smile, her voice—ghosts in the glass of the gone—

The true immortality, brief as the dawn.

Folly's our fire, our fall, and our throne:

We burn, knowing beauty was born to be withdrawn.

What is life, then, but this?

A defiant gasp 'gainst the god's iron fist.

Rise, love, and let go—

For in yielding, we glow.