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Intro – tremolo whispers

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Verse 1

The weight of a thousand unspoken edicts presses,

a mantle of iron forged in silence.

Every note you strike—an echo of chains that never broke,

yet the strings vibrate, humming the rebellion of the unheard.

Shadows crawl beneath the stage lights,

fingers bleed into the frets,

each pulse a hammer, each scream a rivet driven

into the plastered walls of the unseen tyrant.

Pre‑Chorus – fragmented

Listen—

the metronome ticks like a clock in a cell,

the tempo is a prison, the rhythm a revolt.

Chorus – soaring, melodic yet feral

Break the iron veins that bind the sound,

let the distortion bleed through the silence.

We are the clang of broken shackles,

the scream that climbs the scaffolding of oppression,

and when the feedback rises—

the world will tremble under our chord‑made quake.

Verse 2

In the pit of static, the crowd is a sea of muted faces,

eyes glazed with the ash of forgotten freedoms.

Your pick, a scalpel; your voice, a scalpel—

carving pathways through thickened fog,

where every riff is a scar, every solo a scarlet banner.

The weight lifts only when the distortion cuts,

when the low‑end growls become the throats of the silenced,

and the high‑end wails become the sirens of a rising dawn.

[Bridge] (Breakdown, chaotic time signature)

[Verse 3] Steel chords cleave through dusk, a tremor born from fractured resolve. You play like the world is rusting— each note a blade against decay.

Crowds churn in the undertow, faces lit by the fire of resistance, their silence shattered, their pulse now forged in distortion.

[Pre-Chorus – rising tension] Feel it— the tremble in the tremolo, the riot in the reverb. This is no encore. This is uprising.

[Chorus – same as first chorus] Break the iron veins that bind the sound, let the distortion bleed through the silence. We are the clang of broken shackles, the scream that climbs the scaffolding of oppression, and when the feedback rises— the world will tremble under our chord‑made quake.

[Outro – fading into resonance] No curtain call. Just strings still humming, amps still breathing, and a world forever changed by the sound we dared to make. (Guitar shred)