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.

Lust and Dream

Wove ye dream and hung from moon

with bridle that enthralls the night

when on ghastly mare rides sinful delights

Copyright © Ernesto Mora@ThePOEMHOME All Rights Reserved.


From within the solitude and gloom
in the dying light that was
comes the weeping muse
her crescendo mourning us

Copyright © Ernesto Mora@ThePOEMHOME All Rights Reserved.

On My Way to Perdition

On my way to perdition
I met a man cloaked in misery
who sat upon inverted throne
and sang a baritone litany

So enthralled to his intonation
the cadence upon my heart
from his eyes such delight
once I began to fall apart

Now I on this false kings throne
into servitude, my very bones
veiled in midnight gloom
chanteuse, I herald doom

Copyright © Ernesto Mora@ThePOEMHOME All Rights Reserved.

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…


#angels #darkpoetry #poem #poetry


Episode 1: Welcome to ThePOEMMHOME

In this first episode of ThePOEMHOME podcast, we listen to a brief reading of Ernesto’s poetry “Blue Spruce Trees”. Just one of many audio poems down the road in other episodes.