Harbor Heart

Dreams within the gentle breeze
that on your lips leave my name
the scent that from the azure beckons
rests within every pulse of your heart

The Lake

The streams wake upon a lucid dream, where I imbibe to slake my parched lust, and where the breeze upon my brow gently traces its admonition for my trespasses.
Here, it is where the fallen amass and gather at the banks, so clear is the water of life that perdition is seen, awaiting just below.
From the viewing-glass waters, reach out the wailing tendrils, the lost that bask on the warmth radiating from the innocent lamb.
A delightful endeavor, to bathe one’s sins within the lake of damnation, so close to the maw, the temptress whose fruit so saccharin, hangs low to the hungered hands.

It was the sweetest intonation, that from the lake came, my muse that called me into the wading, and drew me away with the ebbing.
And within my very lungs, brimming with sinful rhetoric, I drown though replete with repentance, amid feverish osculation on the lips of never more.
The warmth my dowry, I cede to you my love, and cold and entombed below the eve’s I be, but for a single melody.

The shade that cavorts from the mire, sweet frolic from the gloom, aghast the silhouette is mine, and careen my husk onto you.
Embrace the atramentous depth, so content with the amenity that was gifted to us, the cot from whence we shall rot.

Within my lucid dreaming, on an eve staked in disremembrance, t’was on the waters of Lethe we swam, and lost beneath the calmest wakes, into the deepest forest we wandered, into the misty fluora.
The unending black that adorns the treetops there, where the leaves whisper mockeries and the soil shouts disdain, no stars have ever set and no day has ever loved.
The mournful quiet feasts on your skin, hungered for your sanity, and the moments are as weighed as the penance for your sins.

So long has it been that beneath the waters guile we drowned, and within the wooded copse we have dwelled, such sorrow causes the gentle waves, and in the wakes our mournful plea, awake us with your gentlest breeze.

In these waters wade ye not
for in the copse the lovers rot
the angels have long since wept
and in their wake the sins were kept

Into the mist such lust must go
and burdensome the endless woe
the fruit is bitter on one’s tongue
So rueful from the branches hung…



The Unwilling King

I sat one eve, on a throne of flesh and bone that with every breath from lung, agony it sung
I placed my ear upon the flesh, so moving was the intonation, the cadenza of damnation
I spoke into the black abyss, quandaries so noetic, in tongue so forked, duplicitous heretic
And from the throne were insipid whisper, on my skin tormentous burn, and there sat I intrigued and taciturn

From the gloom just beyond my waking dream, came a figure so serene, a silhouette that bled the morning sun
Ink that spilled from its hooves as it traipsed among the tombs, scribed apostasy onto the knolls and tremble did the moon
And there sat I, my chest split upon the altared hassock, and the claret miasma dancing forth from my rended cicatrice

A song of woe, miserable sorrow, followed this silhouette, enthralled to his very heels
And gaze did I, into the atrament, the shade, the very saturnine mist, the veil upon the faceless
And my eyes did weep, cerise were my tears and black was my fear

Such woe to sit upon that cathedral and stare into oblivion, the lack of clemency on the burning brow, such pleas are cast onto the deaf ear, and the lament is sweet muse to the composer

Now the figure, who cast the firmament black, stood before me on that seat upon the misery
And such was it that his countenance I saw, amidst his fetid cloak, and on his crown wore he a corona, indecorous with putrescent flora, and quarried upon the wilted petals were the souls of the wicked

He spake in archaic tongue, yet on every word that forth from the umbra came, my staccato heart did caveat
Within his every breath, heard I the melody of perdition, such that from my flesh came disdain upon the wicked abomination before me
The wails from the void so mournful and dressed in brooding attire, clawed at my skin and cried for salvation

Adorned sits the king, upon once gilded throne, sovereign is his blackened land, dessicated harvest that feeds none
The eve, long has it favored my presence as the dawn has died on the horizon and the hymn has never ceased its intonation
Sat I upon that throne once, and with the plague came this gift, the rot upon the chair is I, and my kingdom will have no end…

The Mocked and Wingless – Dark Poem

So radiant was the morning star
that from the mild eye came sorrow
and forked tongue whispered miasma
onto jovial hubris

Sweet nectar from the sanctified bloom
the earth was slaked by treason
and cast onto forlorn pastures
are the wingless quarry

Upon these hands sleep countless woes
and on rended back carry we eternal
the sins of our father and mother
mocked by the skies above


No Contrition for Blood – Dark Micro Poetry

From where the umbrous hand doth reach
In the mist among the silent stars
to grasp within its cold conniving
my slumber upon the beasts hassock

I sleep within hungered maw
enticing famished ferality upon my crown
obsequious flesh for the abominable banquet
on the pyre, sweet aroma, sweet, lustful aroma

In the light of the burning moon
and blackened stars that harken demise
lo upon the nameless one
who laps at your miserable cries



From within the solitude and gloom

in the dying light that was

comes the weeping muse

her crescendo mourning us


Lust and Dream

Wove ye dream and hung from moon

with bridle that enthralls the night

when on ghastly mare rides sinful delights


Dreary Meadow

I hear such rancid word

calling from maddening depths

from the umbrous meadow

forlorn is the verdant spring

where the winged husks sing


Adam And Eve, Forbidden Fruit, Into Perdition,Poetry

She was his morning blessing,
into her radiance he genuflected.
Those mournful dawns bathed in osculation,
were canters into the thorn meadows.
But the eve moon flayed her heart,
and tore her winged borne apart.
And into perdition, into the dark,
where-upon her cathedral, from his veins
doth lap her tongue.


Mournful Scribe, In Memoriam ,Poetry

In the somber, dying dusk, just beyond the pale, I saw you. In the atramentous midnight hour, I felt you. In the morning, by the dewy knoll, I kissed the stone of your sepulcher. -E. Mora