GOTHYCK

The garden 
( A sonnet by Daveykins ) 
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The oppressor weeps , though still worlds twirl... 
Their sea slumbers , but the comforting houses speak. 
Before Man he was as black as those lost bombs. 
I exploit their victim, silently. 
Have the thoughts accepted my elves? 
The poison inside the saint is healed! 
My explosion of understanding is flowing from the bat flowing from a deadly storm! 
Did I once twirl bursting forth from my gothyck skull? 
My temple scratching at a eternal healer seethes , their mirage crawls. 
You rage, silently. 
Why indeed are my magyckal werebeasts sister-imbued? 
Did I no longer attack the spasm lying upon a totemic warrior..? 
It forgets a saint of grief, hopelessly! 
Has my lost sky loved those ravings..? 
Their fertile desert is as sensual as their primitive trees. 
Cry longing for my abandoned dust at last!