So Fallen

So fallen unto the embracing kiss
of those lips that speak in silent love
with the dialect of reciprocity,
the idiom of amorous culture
so entrenched within the fleeting moments the evanescent evening that as a shawl upon
your silken skin.

Adorns your breasts with the stars aligned, a glittering gift from the divine. So enthralled to your scent, the very colors on the plumage so vivid.

The delight at first light, dulcet brown sugar, coffee black eyes. On the very sun we dance, and on the moon we love.

Within the eiderdown we dream, silent moments in between
So fallen are we.

Copyright © Ernesto Mora@ThePOEMHOME All Rights Reserved.

Good And Evil

The golden hue kiss on the horizon on the wings dulcet intonation below the dark hungered maw.


Copyright © Ernesto Mora@ThePOEMHOME All Rights Reserved.

“Untitled” a poem by Ernesto Mora⠀

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.


Copyright © Ernesto Mora@ThePOEMHOME All Rights Reserved.

Loving Hands Cause Pain

Loving hands cause pain

Copyright © Ernesto Mora@ThePOEMHOME All Rights Reserved.

For without you

For without you
forsaken among the roots
but a glimpse at your foliage
in awe of vivid palette
in contrast I, in shaded anguish

Copyright © Ernesto Mora@ThePOEMHOME All Rights Reserved.

Poetry of the Deprived

In unpleasant dreams, I’ve heard you weep
beneath the Umbrous willow trees
the creek does mourn your shade forlorn
you’ve laid your tired bones within the flow.

The sun has dreamt it’s final bow, among the sullen stage so dreary now,
midnight remains resolute upon your brow, the crepuscular vestige is your crown.

From the darkest eve, comes a fevered steed,
famished, wanton lust for the husk to feed.

To stare into the dismembered hours, the void of sorrow,
painful flesh devoured, I call your name unto the stars,
etched into the night once ours.

You come to me veiled in black, vested in the shroud of agony that scalds my flesh,
embrace my piteous alms, my derided and indecorous banquet,
from the black meadows a petulant fest.

Through the windows come cold whispers cavorting with anguished blasphemes,
you speak my name as if to maim,
my sanity canters away on mare which drinks from your streams.

Into my dream seeps vitriol, forsaken is the lamb at slaughter,
as you imbibe my tremulous life I slip downstream farther…

In the waters of your resolution, to drown me in the mire of confusion,
you and I litanize the poetry of the deprived.

Little hands

I hold onto your little hand
and feel the stories untold
a bond ancient
and your eyes take hold
be it into the night
or into the vivid day
I will always hold your little hand
onto the blackest of frays.

Copyright © Ernesto Mora@ThePOEMHOME All Rights Reserved.

Loving Mother

In time through the whispered years
no love greater has there been
the caress that wipes the tears
words softly soothe the sleeved heart pinned
upon the arm once so young
now wiser, warmer it has become
and though no longer I slumber upon your chest
its still as though I grasp onto every breath

The Night We Met

When the evening would speak, in its tones so silent,
into my listening heart
the melody was so bitter, it made me close my eyes, such a
sweet caress that lifted my head
onto the altar where you’d wait so sullen, with those tears on
your prayers, that pain on your bones

the moon would paint its carcass across the dismal black,
pulling at the strings on our backs,
what a beautiful eulogy will be written into the stars, and how
the sky will mourn, to catch those tears I’d pass upon the
thorny tapestry, and bleed into that evening again

Your fingers forever engraved so enrapturing, onto my flawed
skin your farewell, those moments onto which my days are
enthralled, those lips on my flesh, they flayed my innocence
now woe has besieged our obstreperous night, where amid the
tempest we dance

awaiting the dying morning that we know won’t come, await
those breaths that we will not take
speak to me though my stars have fallen silent, my last vision
should be of you, and never more beauty into my eyes should
fall, the windows shattered against the raging conscience

So long has it been, lost among the gray, the midnight draped
on my veil
drifting amid the blackened sun, pitiful silhouette in the night
Long ago, your smile was with me, and the evening would
speak to me
So long has it been silent, your voice has faded from memory

*Image copyright of Netflix

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

Copyright © Ernesto Mora@ThePOEMHOME All Rights Reserved.