The Icon

So.. you've some to investigate a dead Icon
Cigarette smoke like the angry shimmer, thick in the original black.
He was the scuplted that too soo nwas scaled and delivered, stamped and returned and sent back.
The dead means of a metaphor, balanced by harmony, dusty and rusted in the smoke of your drug..
He knew the chisel that chipped at his heartstrings and broke them
He knew the blue.. that the empty drug brought.
In shards in the studio, in shables and used Like Drunken rage, written and sung
the torment that tore at him tattered and lost
in the fashion that all  your songs can abuse
Yet you've come to announce the wasted icons last hour
and bright light the scalpel like rings in the clouds
and move on to your new light your new whitelight addiction
the wasted dreams talking and talking adrive in the seas of pain killers and bleed
while our wasted afliction, our desolate icon
waits to disolve like the pills we dont need
Yet taken not to waste our unwanted icon is still wanted some where
in his coma of dreams

Rall~