Sung: from rung to rung
whiskey-oiled voices
pushing the greats out of their graves
climbed out of styx asylum on day passes
overstaying through the night.

Folded vocal cords,
cannbalized from others sooner fallen
drunk like bravery,
screaming for enlightenment
up into darker skies, daring
spitting, spraying blood and scar tissue
one more friday to stave off death:

Hope is an opiate. Keeps you moving, but not much else.