My cold saint ( A sonnet by lonely1@wolfden.org ) ----=-==-====-==-=---- It struggles, fitfully... My grass is cowering before a King of joy... A sky falling beneath a wet garden is primitive. Has the thorn behind the memory of understanding discovered those cold eyes..? Wherefore do I crawl, hideously? Have their demons loved their fingers? And why do I call to their unknown martyr? You reclaim a city of understanding. Their bat is terrifying... Long, long ago he was deadly. Wherefore are demons flaming? It trusts the sister lying upon a sensual hill... It reveres my mirage. Did I so recently plot looming above the wicked priest, pointlessly? Run, swarm pointlessly! Wherefore are their lonely memories as avenging as a grass..?
Original URL: jbrowse.com (has been defunct for some time)
Wayback Machine Archive. The original Ruby code can be found there as well.