The forsaken shaman flowing from a eternal jewel 
( A sonnet by Excessus ) 
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Did I so soon hate the rose of woe through the systolic thunderbolt..? 
Those flaming wounds shriek at the thunderbolt of memory, as hopefully as their temple cowering before a foul bat. 
A sand roams , the deadly figure lurking under the thorn seethes. 
Wherefore do I run, hopefully? 
The foul mother dances with me. 
I weep piteously through the righteousness. 
I die bursting forth from the soft razor above the understanding! 
Why do I slumber in the righteousness? 
Yet look; a mother of contentment stands, hopefully... 
The victim falling beneath a long-lost sister feasts on the sinuous razor, terrifyingly. 
In elder times it was hostile... 
Those stormclouds seethe bursting forth from a thunderbolt of righteousness. 
In elder times it was cruel , though still in the modern world you are foul. 
In elder times you were as vicious as those gothyck claws , and yet now they are victim-ish! 
Their indestructible claws struggle. 
Exactly as I had known in the days of yore I was broken.

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

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