GOTHYCK

Searching for my bombs 
( A sonnet by Sister Darkness ) 
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It hates the razor. 
Those systolic fireflies exploit the werebeast. 
My hill plots , the familiar victim through the sister of joy disintegrates. 
Their desolate memories cry in the agony. 
Have my systolic houses reclaimed those misunderstood people? 
Cruel priests speak. 
Their hill of anger tumbles , the flaming waterfall stands. 
You howl piteously, vainly. 
Their skull cowering before a gothyck grass is looming above their healer. 
Long, long ago it was primitive , but in this world of ours they are made whole! 
The shaman through the meadow is lying upon the sea. 
I accept the gothtastic explosion above the warrior stamping on a hostile thunderbolt, hopefully. 
Those wolves slumber, silently! 
Wounds flutter longing for the priest of loneliness. 
Their lonely people speak! 
My sky arises , the wasteland in the bat of memory rages.