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 Ferryman Doth Come

On Sunday through the witching hours, the midnight mass bells tolled.
Yet pews were empty and windows shuttered, no genuflection at the doors.
The altar stood bare, no widowed veils, litany was not intoned,
hymns did not permeate the starless night, no vicar spoke from leather tomes.

And I alone in this lonely void, trepid among the graves cold stones,
wept against the apathy on the pillars whittled from brittle bone.
Amidst the silhouettes was I derided, the epitaphs disremembered me,
the iron gates within the winds, whistled sacrilegious melody,
and from within the softened soil came impious discourtesy.

The ferryman doth come, two pence upon my eyes, one oar in Acheron, one oar in Cocytus.
The ferryman doth come, two pence upon my eyes, the bells toll the price for hell’s toll, two pence for my demise.

A Walk Among the Black Brambles

Poem Entry : Page 2

Wingless Bird

Wingless bird of strife and sorrow,
whose cage now doorless bids farewell,
into the vast unknown venture intrepid, and
behind leave ye sleepless blanket.

Wingless bird of sullen eyes, such beauty in your
freedom, that cage now houses days on end, a
memory into memories of flight.

Wingless bird of regretful contempt,
how thine presence swiftly fled, into the
breadth of unending dreams, onto fields of
sweetened water…and dusk into your eyes
sets, the vessel enveloped into beginnings,
and weeping, the wind carries your scent once
and last.

Familiar euphoria of the Angel’s choir, the
perfume of innocence, the day mourns the
setting of the sun, night with eyes closed but a
slumber eternal, but never awaken unto that
yesterday, and grasp onto thine self the aromatic
nostalgia.

The longing of the cage that once was, bid
loving parting from the maws of that cage,
and hold no disdain within your ephemeral
beauty, the modest moments chained to my
heart, and ache upon that muscle, the
reminiscent thorn to tear that flesh.

Wingless bird of transient songs, no longer
intone the brass wires of your cage,
Sweet melodious and brimful with contrition,
bending with penance, arching, destitute of
console.

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The Mocked and Wingless

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

-E.Mora

Weeping Stone Garden

Within void-like black of the night

I hear the hollow stones cry

their stories of the dream within dreams

of those that have slipped into Lethe’s stream

Be ware not to wake the dead,

They know the secrets in your head

The anguish, the symphony of screams

This melody that permeates into the dream within the dreams

E.Mora

May Their Angels Always Fall

Black heart torn apart, rend onto solitude,
In vain you palpate song of langor, misery intoned
My chanteuse darkest eve, on dying steed that gallops,
Into the hours and into maw, this home that we call ours,
This crimson writing on furled brow, lyrics of demise,
Trample underneath burning hooves, those smiles that be devoured,
No remedy, no respite, no peace upon the carrions, ensnared within the metal tombs that encase this fleeting heart.

Dearest console of mine, midnight veil on every of my horizons,
Speak those curses on silver-tongues, tear the words from their lips,
Onto those who speak against the grain, twilight deluge of pain and sorrow,
Accompany as through these atramentous voids we watch,
How sullenly sweet the willows weep, and arrid is their soil.

Break apart these vengeful bones as penance on the pires,
Amid the tormenting tempest blooms the foulest of the flowers,
Aroma bitter burns those lungs that breathe my despise,
And false prophets that do not warn and etch unto the eyes,
A tapestry of sweet unrest, prose of false witnesses,
My name should tremble their hearts, my essence malady their sunrise,
Never set the sun against the slivers of horizon, their cursed day always anew,
Birthed by rotten womb, delivered into forgotten tombs,
May their angels always fall…

-E.Mora

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