GOTHYCK

Stamping on my hordes 
( A sonnet by loves_goth ) 
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Why indeed are their knives cruel? 
Yet look; the sister in the saint roams... 
For what reason are the memories systolic? 
Has a Queen defied my ravens..? 
Their wet shamans speak. 
Their sinuous fireflies accept my figure, thunderously once. 
For what reason are exquisite mountains werebeast-enchanted? 
My wasteland is stretching beyond the shaman. 
You oppose my terrifying sea, fitfully. 
Their city denies , though still wise ravings speak ecstatically. 
Run, drift lustfully! 
I heal a dust dying beside a gothyck werebeast... 
The dust waits for me. 
Those flowers mourn. 
Through it all a sand drifts, piteously. 
The grim priest beside the fool is dreaming of their razor of loneliness.