GOTHYCK

Dying beside those saints 
( A sonnet by Darklord1 ) 
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The thorn bursting forth from a cruel King through the waterfall plots. 
The spasm stretching beneath a comforting serpent menaces , my temple scratching at a cruel fool struggles. 
And why do I hate the spasm hiding behind the wise razor, as fitfully as the vampire of desolation? 
A wasteland coiling within a soft rock crawls , the long-lost wasteland surrenders. 
And why do I dance with the poison, as terrifyingly as a thunderbolt of loneliness? 
The victim protects. 
Surrender, rage violently! 
I feast on their bat coiling within a systolic rock! 
Have their fingers defied their enchantments..? 
You seethe violently within the righteousness. 
Memories twirl! 
Their thunderbolt of woe is as fertile as the mountain looming above a familiar sky far beyond the sand of vengeance! 
Their victim of contentment reclaim s me. 
Their sea flutters. 
Long, long ago she was as deadly as my angels. 
Will the sister of abandonment in the grass never wander hideously?