The lights above burn white, sterile, endless,
A hum of machines wraps the moment in steel,
My chest a battlefield laid open, sacred flesh,
In the distance, faintly, the chords start to rise,
Black Sabbath howling from speakers like prophets.
Surgeons dance their quiet dance of precision,
My ribs are parted, my veins sing their secrets,
The scalpel whispers with sharp, unspoken truth,
Ozzy\'s voice a hymn of rebellion, strange mercy,
Through my blood, the bass thunders like the earth.
I hover between the knife, the music, the pulse,
Each beat a drum, each note electric, a life spark,
The song and the scalpel become one, like breath,
The rhythm of life surges beneath latex hands,
I surrender to the surgeons, the sound, the stars.