Slowly resurrect the fossilized eyes.
Work in the cold, grey, concrete asylum.
We pass in pairs of twenty and seven.
Stroke the blood, dust the ash, spark up the muse.
The rot runs to the core, no man remains.

Scar tissue and cough syrup numb the brain.
A silken, rope-filled snake bruises the pipe.
Midnight arrives. Mama, can you hear the moon?
The stars pass through, purifying the gloom.
Embrace the tumult, greet the curtain call.

The dust mites settle, the clouds become grey.
We spread our wings, cry out, and fade away.