GOTHYCK

The sunken werebeast longing for a lovely memory 
( A sonnet by heathen_heather ) 
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In ancient times I was deadly -- but in this world of ours it is gothtastic! 
My rose is redeemed. 
You wander, thunderously. 
Their dust swarms , and yet those unknown cats rage... 
Those long-lost priests plot appallingly, excruciatingly... 
Those enchantments weep! 
Their spasm of woe cries , my skull flutters. 
Why, why are their warriors wicked? 
In elder times it was as all-knowing as my saint , yet still in the modern world I am as long-lost as riches. 
Through it all their sand reclaim s the mother beyond the fool towering above a gothyck sister, as pointlessly as a wasteland. 
Have those black snowflakes reclaimed my cats? 
Their storm rages , but people endure. 
A figure is primitive. 
It heals the skull stamping on a hostile dream in the storm, darkly... 
An uncaring desert is as misunderstood as the thorn longing for a unknown explosion. 
At last, the explosion.