Pulse

My pulse — my code, my secret score,
My drum of doom, my peak's rapport.
It's love's own moan and parting's knock,
My rhythmic, earthly, mortal lock.

From tenderness — a leap, from fear — to still,
Until the soul transforms into a mouse at will.
My steed and captive, my beast and cage,
Destined to roar for a hundred years of rage.

PULSE! THE RHYTHM OF BLOOD AND STEEL!
PULSE! YOUR TIME HAS ROARED ITS PEAL!
YOUR SCORE! YOUR FEAR! YOUR LIGHT!
AS LONG AS IT BEATS — THERE'S NO GOODNIGHT!

A storm in veins, a current in the nerve,
But the beat goes on, a metronome to serve.
A crimson dance in the pitch-black night,
That guards against despair with all its might.

When in the silence the world collapses to scrap,
It is your final, rusted, sacred lap.
It whispers: "Alive. You have not turned to frost.
Your final hour has not yet tallied the cost."

PULSE! THE RHYTHM OF BLOOD AND STEEL!
PULSE! YOUR TIME HAS ROARED ITS PEAL!
YOUR SCORE! YOUR FEAR! YOUR LIGHT!
AS LONG AS IT BEATS — THERE'S NO GOODNIGHT!

IT IS A VERSE. IT IS A PAUSE. IT IS THE FLOOD.
IT WRITES THE SONG TO SPITE THE ENEMIES' BLOOD, AND AGAIN.
LISTEN! IN IT LIES ALL POWER AND MIGHT!
IT POUNDS — SO YOU'RE ALIVE, NOT BENT FROM THE FIGHT!

PULSE! [BEAT!] RHYTHM OF STEEL! [BEAT!]
PULSE! [SCORE!] ROARED ITS PEAL! [DON'T YIELD!]
YOUR SCORE! YOUR FEAR! YOUR LIGHT!
AS LONG AS IT BEATS — THERE'S NO GOODNIGHT!

Tick-tock.
My mark.
Tick — still.
My life.
Knock.
Sound.
I.
Pulse.