Under the Iron Clad Sea
The Bong Water Phenomenon
Clad in a grayish metallic color the city rests
Manifests each day the smog that humbly sets
We place bets on our own survival
On the holy holocaust arrival
With no rival but ourselves we plummet
As we climb and see the distant summit
Covered in human ash, nothing resides or grows
As on the tide the human souls ride and decompose
One rose remains in the middle,
The thorns black tipped and brittle
Jesus holds it in a steady embrace
As machines trace his path to this place
With a crooked grace they nail him
To a cross of silicone, evil prevails with sin
The rose becomes his crown…
As in his own blood he drowns
Deaths throne set high above the populace
There’s No stopping this dominance
Prominence with the downfall
The so called leaders, clowns and dolls
We once knew our steady direction
Now the infection
…has increased our tainted reflection
the dissection of what was pure…
turned to cinnamon and rust no cure
with blackened hearts we wait and rest
waiting for the day of redemption and our test
if this is how we are humbly blessed
then mark me down along with the rest of the possessed
