Put The Mic

I put the mic to my throat, slide it like a knife.

I'm a G.O.A.T being sacrificed by a ghost.

Attacked from the height of a satellite by a bolt.

My appetite for a boat to ride on scattered light and float is like a lion on an island of dope.

I analyse, fantasise, there are phantom eyes watching me poke the veil.

I feel like there's hope when I fail, broken and frail, choked by the smoke, open the sail.

I awoken frozen and pale. My T.O.E's all swollen and stale.

Snow woven the trail, the hail an omen of betrayal.