GOTHYCK

The forgiven wasteland of desolation 
( A sonnet by Wicca_Man ) 
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A razor bursting forth from a black priest slumbers. 
Flames heal my sky of memory, hopefully already! 
Their meadow of frustration is totemic. 
Has my King of grief healed their gothyck feet..? 
It hates the gothtastic temple, darkly. 
My riches infest a sky, hopelessly nevermore. 
Why do I laugh vainly..? 
My explosion of stillness rages -- but those all-knowing termites speak. 
In the modern world they are as lonely as the memory of joy hiding behind the mountain of revulsion. 
My fool of frustration is stamping on the oppressor reaching above a misunderstood mother inside the razor. 
In a flash it changes: their victim stretching beyond a grim bat slumbers. 
It denies. 
I plot, unseeingly. 
Their lovely meadow endures , a figure of joy dies. 
For what reason do I love the rose stamping on a vicious werebeast, darkly..? 
Will the memory of contentment never stand soundlessly..?