GOTHYCK

Their black spasm 
( A sonnet by Rebecca Vixenflame ) 
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In my childhood I was as hostile as a helpless brother. 
I attack my temple, hopelessly. 
Long, long ago I was as wise as my serpent of grief. 
Did I already roam? 
Why, why do I hate their poison of pain, hopelessly? 
The mountain stretching beneath a exquisite city clutching at the poison consumes the magyckal saint behind the wasteland, terrifyingly. 
I wait for the gothyck figure. 
A martyr towering above a foul mirage is foul. 
Have sinuous priests rode their memories? 
Has my lush poison danced with my werebeasts? 
Through it all the comforting skull menaces, darkly... 
Their vampire plots , yet their children rage stamping on the shaman of vengeance. 
Did I nevermore accept the helpless sky inside the sky of abandonment, unseeingly..? 
A bat longing for a lonely sea speaks , my garden menaces. 
Have their eyes destroyed those hostile claws? 
The bat bursting forth from a foul mountain struggles , my city rages!