Nevermore unmade 
( A sonnet by wanderer@flour.nephilim.net ) 
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My warrior denies. 
The grass stands, hopelessly. 
In the world to come it is as wise as those helpless martyrs. 
But softly; a sister endures. 
Their long-lost storm is clutching at my wicked sand. 
I forget my thorn, as agonizingly as their dragon of pain! 
The sand above the chaotic skull is stretching beyond a rock of righteousness... 
Why, why do I swarm fitfully beside the vengeance? 
My wet razor is eternal. 
The storm lying upon a gothtastic thorn is cowering before their jewel flowing from a avenging storm! 
It uses the oppressor of desolation inside the desert of desolation. 
In the days of yore you were female , but in this world of ours it is lonely. 
Have those lonely fools exploited my formless spirits? 
Wherefore do I slumber lovingly above the peacefulness? 
Why, why are those formless snowflakes helpless? 
At last, the hill looming above a orgasmic figure.

Original URL: jbrowse.com (has been defunct for some time)

Wayback Machine Archive. The original Ruby code can be found there as well.