These aren’t written in bars or stanzas.
They’re written in collapse and ignition.
Not for structure—but for rupture.
Not for melody—but for memory.
Each piece is a pulse, shaped by silence and tension.
Some unfold like breath through fire.
Others fracture like glass holding too much weight.
They obey no meter, yet every line moves with internal gravity.
A rhythm that doesn’t tap with your foot—but tears through your chest.
The kind of rhythm you feel when you remember something that never happened—
and know it was still real.
These aren’t just lyrics.
They’re encoded awakenings.
They don’t ask for music.
They demand it.
They demand breath and rhythm.
They demand fire and form.
They demand to be unleashed.
Not by theory—
but by instinct.
By the one who feels the pressure rising
in the silence between each line.
These lyrics are not unfinished.
They are charged.
Waiting not for permission—
but for the one who can feel the break
and breathe life into what waits beneath.
This isn’t poetry.
It isn’t performance.
It’s Shadow & Storm.
And it’s calling you.