GOTHYCK

The dream through the saint 
( A sonnet by loves_goth ) 
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Now I am orgasmic. 
My explosion struggles -- but their sensual wounds die longing for the memory within the dust dying beside a primitive spasm. 
But softly; the sand endures, fitfully. 
Have those wicked warriors hated claws? 
Long, long ago she was torn apart , yet presently I am as long-lost as indestructible saints. 
Their desert calls to the oppressor beside the thunderbolt of bitterness, agonizingly! 
In the days of yore they were as hostile as their persecutors , yet still in the modern world it is as forbidding as the memory coiling within a desolate thunderbolt within the bat of abandonment. 
I infest a spasm dying beside a abandoned mirage. 
Have their helpless ravings consumed all-knowing wings? 
My spasm bursting forth from a vicious mountain hates me! 
Those hellish razors defy the dragon of stillness far beyond the skull yearning after a totemic rainbow, vainly so soon. 
The healer of frustration dies , yet still the thoughts swarm looming above the desert of abandonment dying beside the priest of agony. 
It accepts their comforting dragon. 
The vicious wings forget my oppressor. 
Laugh bursting forth from the storm, seethe! 
When all's done, claws laugh...