artists: a b c d e f g h i j k l m n o p q r s t u v w x y z 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9

lirik lagu trampled brethren – dalek


with uncertainty i ink my final thoughts on unlit blocks
n-gg-s caught on heron nods
stil at odds with false gods of archaic age.
angelic face wretched with pain ignites my flame.
your mundane daily life amazes me
such complacency.
tattered city once br-mm-ng with life now sits abandoned
some feel these thoughts to random
i hand them their empty heads as main co-rs- to davinci’s last supper
as they sit in wonder.
abundant sun pours over ald steel and bricks
filling my aching eyes till they split.
i felt my earth shift, contort, and twist.
lift heavy brow to view what happened to my tiny corner of dirt.
worthless soul too old to care
as despair builds thick amongst my people.
from burnt steeples hear distant toll of bells
ancient tongue swells as one lumbers with prenatal language.
manage a co-rs- throaty mumble to convey how this earth crumbles.
i tumble, close to where i’ve been a million times before
free to ignore pain which pounds at human temples.
i resemble less of a man and more the dirt i tread on.

to my trampled brethren,
heaven won’t accept you!
either you or it don’t exist.
consider that a gift
as we walk through that mist filled vally
vulnerable souls tell tales of ill proportions
scorching ra soothing moon, soon to dim
my travels at an end, light bends to dark
jagged crossed sticks manhandled as scripture and art
picture your christ as blond and blue eyed,
as mine resides within confines of empty gl-ss bottle.
robbed of youth i wobble past society and rest my head on curb of reality,
if only for a nap,
to grasp for that which we lack.
remain trapped in these three dimensions
mention i once stepped past, now viewed as insane.
trained human pets scurry to cubical for food pellets.
next funeral for those who think, cause thoughts are relics.
i smell this viscous odor on each face i meet,
seems humanity reached peak in 20th century.
my jaded eye strains to see through a smoke-filled room.
consumed by books which speak of our past
at last begin to piece together our beginnings
with few fleeting seconds till our end,
quickly cross that bridge you b-m,
see what’s on the other sh-r-.
it’s lure magnetic
in our drunken minds
poor feeble sh-ll hoping for so much more
left entranced by ancient dance of emptiness.
few are the blessed who feed on truth’s breast.