Their are cries of defeat muffled by a world of fakeness around us, that somehow still manages to sustain itself with no foundation, and rule everything.
The churches are filled with the masses reciting their stock prayers, nervously telling themselves they deserve paradise. The Benz is parked out in the parking lot. The caricature of success is a boss telling you to get your work done, stealing your energy to glorify a false postion of self-importance.
That cry will never be expressed.
All the while, the promises of the son, that they're are many mansions in the father's kingdom, prepared for a final resting place of the faithful, have been reduced to empty altar's of mental belief.
The brother's in the crowd feel their personal internalization pried from their soul's fingers, a paradise turned to dust in relation to an inevitable subconcious connection to the contagious energies of social dynamics.
Lost, the faithful are thrown overboard against their will and wash up alone and naked, isolated from the world, driven mad, and are left to find joy talking on broken payphones as the passerbys don't notice the headset and phonecard has been removed.
The faces of the wretched, looking up into your face from the street, wrapped in filthy shit covered blankets, unable to mouth the words, begging for a crust of the lifeforce flowing through a bulging disco pants.
At one time, I was filled in the presence of others, with the hope of riding eternal waves, together in a party of life flowing forever.
The eternal manifests itself in an invisible energy emanating from everything, while I spiral further downward into the doom of redemption, and I hear a an old am radio playing and it crackles:
We'll be on the shoreline
When that heavy ship goes down
Did you think that you were lucky?
You should see yourself now
Falling into the gutter, I catch a glimpse to cry and look at myself, letting go into my own doom defeated, and I'm saved.
Their are cries of defeat muffled by a world of fakeness around us, that somehow still manages to sustain itself with no foundation, and rule everything.
The churches are filled with the masses reciting their stock prayers, nervously telling themselves they deserve paradise. The Benz is parked out in the parking lot. The caricature of success is a boss telling you to get your work done, stealing your energy to glorify a false postion of self-importance. That cry will never be expressed.
All the while, the promises of the son, that they're are many mansions in the father's kingdom, prepared for a final resting place of the faithful, have been reduced to empty altar's of mental belief.
The brother's in the crowd feel their personal internalization pried from their soul's fingers, a paradise turned to dust in relation to an inevitable subconcious connection to the contagious energies of social dynamics.
Lost, the faithful are thrown overboard against their will and wash up alone and naked, isolated from the world, driven mad, and are left to find joy talking on broken payphones as the passerbys don't notice the headset and phonecard has been removed.
The faces of the wretched, looking up into your face from the street, wrapped in filthy shit covered blankets, unable to mouth the words, begging for a crust of the lifeforce flowing through a bulging disco pants.
At one time, I was filled in the presence of others, with the hope of riding eternal waves, together in a party of life flowing forever.
The eternal manifests itself in an invisible energy emanating from everything, while I spiral further downward into the doom of redemption, and I hear a an old am radio playing and it crackles:
We'll be on the shoreline When that heavy ship goes down Did you think that you were lucky? You should see yourself now
Falling into the gutter, I catch a glimpse to cry and look at myself, letting go into my own doom defeated, and I'm saved.