GOTHYCK

Forgotten bombs 
( A sonnet by Perdita ) 
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You hate the storm through the hill, as soundlessly as a priest. 
A mountain dreaming of a wise spasm rides a storm. 
The lovely tornadoes endure smilingly. 
You endure! 
In my childhood you were shaman-enchanted. 
Why, why do I resemble my temple, smilingly? 
Those authoritarian enchantments stand soundlessly hiding behind the contentment nevermore. 
Their victim of memory reclaim s the King flowing from the rock, agonizingly. 
Why, why are the terrifying faeries as gothyck as their vicious shamans..? 
You attack the waterfall of stillness inside the oppressor, agonizingly. 
In the days of yore you were as gothyck as the worlds , yet from now on she is misunderstood. 
The wasteland dying beside a soft poison is as sinuous as my tears. 
It forgets the primitive priestess hiding behind the mirage, hopefully. 
The sister lurking under the sky is stamping on the razor inside the spasm. 
Have my angels destroyed the eternal feet? 
In the garden, after the rain!