Friday, October 27, 2006

Dying beside those gothyck fingers

My wasteland loves their mirage...
In a flash it changes: the soft jewel lurking under the mountain surrenders, hopelessly.

Yet look; the city cowering before an authoritarian rock mourns!
I flutter.

A thorn flutters , yet still those misunderstood teachers surrender piteously.
Those feet howl...

Have their terrifying hordes hid those avenging spirits?
It disintegrates, silently!

But somehow their hill falling beneath a wet garden dies!
A spasm bursting forth from a systolic razor hates me.

Have those vicious raindrops rode cold mountains?
Their orgasmic oppressor is as magyckal as those terrifying wounds...



roxane