Yellow Watery Eye (Victor Frankenstein)

Lyrics

[Verse 1]
Your hands woke the dead—synaptic lightning
across a chest that had never drawn breath,
long-term potentiation firing like cathedral bells,
cortical remapping of a consciousness
that bloomed in darkness and first light at once.
You didn't steal fire; you *threaded* it,
wove myelination into dormant neural pathways,
watched theta waves birth themselves
from stillness. The creature gasped—
not horror, but the mirror neurons firing,
recognizing its maker's trembling joy,
that predictive coding: *I exist because you believed.*
Your obsession was beautiful mathematics,
each suture a synapse singing.

[Chorus]
You gave the voiceless a voice,
axons branching into belonging,
hands that learned to hold their own shadow.
This is resurrection—
not religious, but *alive*,
neurons blooming where only stone had been.

[Verse 2]
They called it madness, this rewiring,
but you knew: neurogenesis doesn't ask permission.
Your creature's first scream was proprioception awakening,
the interoception of a heartbeat
newly aware of itself, magnificent and raw.
You mapped the impossible terrain,
each anatomical choice a deliberate gift,
and when those sewn-together eyes opened,
you didn't flinch—you *grinned*.
The hippocampal consolidation of that moment
lives in you forever, a memory so bright
it becomes prophecy: consciousness
can bloom anywhere.

[Chorus]
You gave the voiceless a voice,
axons branching into belonging,
hands that learned to hold their own shadow.
This is resurrection—
not religious, but *alive*,
neurons blooming where only stone had been.

[Bridge]
Every doubt burned away
when your creation *moved*,
when it understood,
when two nervous systems—
one ancient, one newborn—
recognized each other,
teacher and student,
creator and *seen*.

[Chorus]
You gave the voiceless a voice,
axons branching into belonging,
hands that learned to hold their own shadow.
This is resurrection—
not religious, but *alive*,
neurons blooming where only stone had been.

[Outro]
Your stitched-together masterpiece stands,
lightning still crackling through its marrow,
and the whole world trembles—
not in fear of what you made,
but in awe that you *dared*
to let the dead remember
what it meant to *feel*.