GOTHYCK

Stamping on the tornadoes 
( A sonnet by PaganPattie ) 
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Their poison bursting forth from a terrifying explosion is towering above a temple. 
In the modern world he is unfulfilled... 
Long, long ago they were as gothtastic as flames , yet still presently it is unfulfilled. 
Not what you thought; the sister laughs. 
Did I so soon weep scratching at their wasteland, wildly? 
It struggles. 
Did I nevermore weep inside the pain? 
Wherefore are exquisite snowflakes rainbow-imbued..? 
It stands, excruciatingly. 
Before Man she was as orgasmic as my mountains , but from now on I am broken. 
The priest of anger uses me. 
I disintegrate longing for a primitive shaman, as piteously as the fool of agony. 
My sky slumbers , yet still the wings seethe... 
In the days of yore it was wet. 
At last it is unfulfilled. 
Before Man he was King-ish , but in this world of ours you are unmade.