The Elements, Vol 1 · Track 5 · middle
Oxygen
Sung BY the element Oxygen (symbol O, atomic number 8), in FIRST PERSON — a character with a fear, a vanity, or a secret. Write ORIGINAL lyrics TRUE to this specific element's real chemistry, history and place in the world: everyone needs you to live and you are also the great destroyer — you are rust, you are fire, you are the slow burn of aging; the generous corroder who gives the breath and takes the iron. NOT a generic 'I am an element' — find what is uniquely, specifically true of Oxygen. Clean, DistroKid/YouTube-safe. Register to the character.
Lyrics
You feel me now. In the hollow of your throat. The first and last necessity. Before the world knew your name, it knew mine. Two billion years ago, I was the great poison. I spilled into the oceans from the cyanobacteria, a blue-green tide. And the iron dissolved in the water turned to red dust and sank. I wrote my arrival in stone, in lines of rust. I killed a world to make a world. Your world. I am the sharp gasp in the cold morning air. I am the hungry flame that leaps from the spark. I am the patient red that eats the iron heart of the bridge. I am the engine of your blood, and the slow, breaking apart. I give you the breath. I am the burn. They trapped me in a jar in 1774. That summer day, Priestley with his burning glass. He saw a candle flame explode with light, and thought I was just better air. He breathed me in, felt his lungs grow "uncommonly light and easy." Then Lavoisier gave me a name that meant 'acid-sharp'. He wasn't right, but he understood the edge. My edge. I am the sharp gasp in the cold morning air. I am the hungry flame that leaps from the spark. I am the patient red that eats the iron heart of the bridge. I am the engine of your blood, and the slow, breaking apart. I give you the breath. I am the burn. In the quiet dark of your lungs, I am a gentle trade. A soft exchange in the alveoli. But give me acetylene, and I become a 3,500-degree blade. I am the lines around your eyes. The grey in your hair. The slow fire you call 'getting old'. It's just me, doing my work. I am the sharp gasp in the cold morning air! I am the hungry flame that leaps from the spark! I am the patient red that eats the iron heart of the bridge! I am the engine of your blood, and the slow, breaking apart! I give you the breath! I am the burn! Every seventy years of moments. Every single beat of your heart. Is just a long, slow combustion. Breathe in. Burn out.