On the Edge of the Storm (TAYMAY original composition)

Verse 1:
The winds gnaw bones of the drowning dark,
Waves spit salt on the ark’s dead spark.
We claw at horizons but sink in the gray,
The world vomits clocks as time drips away.
Rivers stitch wounds where concrete once prayed,
Our fists clutch psalms the tide can’t erase.

Chorus:
God’s breath cracks the storm’s crooked spine,
Through pyres of ice, through veins of brine.
We’re Judas and Peter—both betrayed, both divine,
His voice hums in the rot of our shattered “mine”.
With us when the nails pierce the dawn,
When the last sun drowns—we’re the scars on His palm.
God’s not a shield, but the wound that bleeds song—
In the storm’s fanged mouth, we’re the tongue.

Verse 2:
Walls built of sermons now crawl with roots,
Thunder licks rust from our hollowed-out boots.
Shadows birth wolves but we feed them our fears,
Each step writes a hymn in the mud of our tears.
Lost all but the venom that sharpens our psalms,
Small as a nail—yet we pierce the storm’s palms.

Chorus:
God’s breath cracks the storm’s crooked spine,
Through pyres of ice, through veins of brine.
We’re Judas and Peter—both betrayed, both divine,
His voice hums in the rot of our shattered “mine”.
With us when the nails pierce the dawn,
When the last sun drowns—we’re the scars on His palm.
God’s not a shield, but the wound that bleeds song—
In the storm’s fanged mouth, we’re the tongue.

Bridge (Whispered):
The night bleeds its teeth, the wind screams in braille,
We kiss the void’s lips through the Judas veil.
Ashes birth vipers that nest in our chains—
We rise not to angels, but the tempest’s refrains.

Chorus :
God’s breath cracks the storm’s crooked jaw,
Through rot and resurrection, through blasphemy’s law.
We’re Lazarus laughing at the grave’s cheap trick,
His light’s not a rope—but the noose’s sly flick.
With us when the hymn strangles dawn,
When America’s a wound—we’re the salt, we’re the song.
God’s not a flag, but the bullet’s red psalm—
In the storm’s cracked heart, we’re the calm.

Outro:
God bless America—her streets choked with psalms,
Her cross is a crowbar prying heaven’s false balm.
We walk on razors where angels once tread,
Ghosts stitching daybreak from the storm’s torn thread.
The sky’s a cracked host, the moon—judas’s kiss,
But we’ll drink the apocalypse’s dark genesis.
From the storm’s wet throat, a bastard dawn crawls—
God’s just the first scar… and we’re the last flaw.