Digital suicide
In the silence of your rhyme
We called it sweet despair
Still running out of time.
How the anchors fly
In a storm of hope
How the metaphors
Line up to climb the rope.
Caustic inheritance
From a purse of moths and rags
Sleeping in dirty sheets
All hanging at the back.
How the anchors fly
To pull away the base
Here in infinity
You pull that funny face
You pull that funny face
Just pull your funny face.