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Throes of Passion

Throes of Passion

Your eyes have spoken such disdain

amidst the berth that we have lain

the silken flesh porcelain

scented petals from within.

The poesy without word

from lips claret unfurled

such passion in the midst of throe

and breathless strewn among the woe.

Lay we now dipped in the ink of our eyes

into the pools of acquiescence, our demise

I press my soul up against yours

I wilt away into the gloomy core

the rhythm in my heart no more…

-E.Mora

#POEMOFTHEPOMENT

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…