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gothic poetry

unter dem Helm des Warriors
aber alas, gerade Träume
von unseren versteckten Plätzen
machen Sie sich nicht um das unsichtbare Sorgen
Massentravails
Tochter, thoukunst kommen zu sterben
wie er wer Geist in der Flamme des Mittages
Material des Mondes
einige windigere Tage
ich verachte meine Freunde mehr als Sie
ich bin in das Ödland gekommen, weil meine Seele athirst ist
wenig Gatter wurde schließlich erreicht

 



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