The Clockwork Heart's Quiet Thaw
I am but an ornate vessel of porcelain and midnight silk, my
Gothic Gear
The Cobalt Heartbeat of a Glass City
My soul is a rusted music box, wound tight by the relentless
The Cobalt Pulse of an Iron Heart
My chest is but a reliquary of oxidized brass and weeping gears,
The Copper Pulse of an Eternal Heartbeat
I am but a relic in this neon-drenched city—a symphony of
The Gilded Pulse of an Amber Hour
My heart is a rusted chronometer, its brass gears grinding with the
The Silver Pulse of an Artificial Heart
I am but a polished shell, my skin cast in the cold
The Pulse Beneath the Porcelain
In this city of iron lungs and weeping neon, my heart felt
The Pulse Beneath the Porcelain
The city hums with a frantic, electric decay, a symphony of grinding
The Pulse Beneath the Iron Husk
The city behind me is a sprawling, rusted engine of gears and
The Pulse Beneath the Chrome
In this city of grinding gears and weeping neon, my heart felt
The Sun's Alchemical Embrace Against the Rust of Winter
I stood upon the edge where the azure void meets the stone,
The Clockwork Heart's Summer Reprieve
The azure fluid surrounding my porcelain limbs does not taste of salt,
