The Smoking Rose
In his hand is a smoking rose, as the sorcerer is in flagrante delicto,
in his own image the beast has made an army of self, with one mind.
These did not come, through the matrix of a woman but were hatched,
from counterfeit tubes. Dark images, after his kind, witch grafted.
The clones will kill those, that disobey him and even worse, if they do.
What a vicious viperous brood, entering this world stillborn,
without a God-given soul and only here to kill and control.
The destroyer, with crimson legions of bestial clones, marking his throne,
making you believe, that science fiction is really a honed science.
It will be like some Atlantean phoenix, rising from the ashes of war.
A golden purple metropolis of soulless human clones possessed,
by ruthless fallen ones. The spirits of these, Antichrists have already, through science fiction. Demonically indoctrinate a generation to believe,
that they are ancient aliens, which once seeded the earth and
for man to be complete, they must receive alien DNA.
The serpent seeds have already been laid, from the town of Bedrock,
to Gattaca and to it's empirical foundation, so called science.
Deceiving, through a host of in-between's, nether never land's and
by countless other Silent hills, within his imagination.
As the beast calls down, the fire rose from the airy heavens,
in the sight of the blind seer. A death star has become complete,
with deadly accuracy. While the sleeping world, becomes an Image Nation.
Sadistic Satan tortures his own, for five months,
because they have received the marker.
They can no longer die nor be redeemed,
by the living God but by then they will know,
it is too late, within an eternal fiery prison
Copyright © John Beam | Year Posted 2017
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