Hanging Ourselves to Death
her once tempting flesh runs cold and sour,
his uncommon voice voiceless as we hail the pale king while her gags soften like butter left out too long,
his hacking days a memory, but strongbox lives on, digital memories of you…
You’re no Judas, for chrissakes! None of you a Judas! Not even one!
But the band plays on, with you or without you.