DeadReligion
01-19-2006, 08:40 PM
Dicta Of The Weak-Minded
(Verse 1)
Mazy cataracts and straight pitfalls, lead down to something unseen.
There is a smokescreen, that’s denser than gas chamber air.
The clean blue water, reflects streetlamp size lights.
This orange dusk-like candescence reflects off the whitewater.
(Verse 2)
This omniscient narrator, chronicles the fight, you thought him to be so brilliant.
You rub your eyes vigorously, and develop a sty,
And you finally realized he was just a homeless, cocaine addict.
Beard white, with what was, his last line,
Wet with his withdrawal sweat, and tears.
(Verse 3)
The dicta, is spread, bred like bacteria, across these fallowed walls.
The rhetoric of a politic, spoken by the… chief executive?
The heretic, has only an empty clip. Can you speak to these wallowed falls?
Grandiloquence plagues politicians, while we stand mute, with nothing to dispute.
(Verse 4)
Lately, I’ve been dreaming of a stone wall, boasting forty-one stories.
With no handholds, there is a window at the top; my objective.
And I suppose when elephants fly, then surely so will I.
But until then, I’ll die from the falling pikes.
(Verse 5)
The luminosity of the idiosyncracy written golden on wet parchment.
Here’s something to believe, my children, be not afraid.
The soothing of the hierarch, the mandated man from a heaven above.
I’ll hold you all to my bosom, like a mother with her baby, be not afraid.
(Verse 6)
The rhetoric of the sympathetic and sorrowful heretic.
The acetone proponent shows a brilliant subtlety;
The cologne of a message thrown in the garbage.
Wasted words, wasted ink.
(Outro)
Words sop into the paper, and disappear, disappear.
(Verse 1)
Mazy cataracts and straight pitfalls, lead down to something unseen.
There is a smokescreen, that’s denser than gas chamber air.
The clean blue water, reflects streetlamp size lights.
This orange dusk-like candescence reflects off the whitewater.
(Verse 2)
This omniscient narrator, chronicles the fight, you thought him to be so brilliant.
You rub your eyes vigorously, and develop a sty,
And you finally realized he was just a homeless, cocaine addict.
Beard white, with what was, his last line,
Wet with his withdrawal sweat, and tears.
(Verse 3)
The dicta, is spread, bred like bacteria, across these fallowed walls.
The rhetoric of a politic, spoken by the… chief executive?
The heretic, has only an empty clip. Can you speak to these wallowed falls?
Grandiloquence plagues politicians, while we stand mute, with nothing to dispute.
(Verse 4)
Lately, I’ve been dreaming of a stone wall, boasting forty-one stories.
With no handholds, there is a window at the top; my objective.
And I suppose when elephants fly, then surely so will I.
But until then, I’ll die from the falling pikes.
(Verse 5)
The luminosity of the idiosyncracy written golden on wet parchment.
Here’s something to believe, my children, be not afraid.
The soothing of the hierarch, the mandated man from a heaven above.
I’ll hold you all to my bosom, like a mother with her baby, be not afraid.
(Verse 6)
The rhetoric of the sympathetic and sorrowful heretic.
The acetone proponent shows a brilliant subtlety;
The cologne of a message thrown in the garbage.
Wasted words, wasted ink.
(Outro)
Words sop into the paper, and disappear, disappear.