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 2: Poetry Reading ‘Hearts of Bitter Harvest’

In this 2nd episode of ThePOEMHOME podcast, we listen to the reading of Ernesto’s poetry “Hearts of Bitter Harvest”

In barren field, sitting upon marble black, painted upon a piteous facade, a farcity so contrived as to mock its own insipidity.
Along its flesh, torn are the moments as leaf from tomes, bidding the warmth that once kindled upon the very sun, a contemptuous parting.
From the roots, the soil so deprived and imbued with disdain, so to sow upon the mud would only serve to reap the loathing sentiment.
Arid is my earth, a thrall to your words so dulcet, and marred is the fruit, the hearts of bitter harvest.

Into the folding nights my vines extend, and caress upon its tendrils your pulsing breast.
What dormant secrets take abode within your countenance, that whittle away at elation and whet condemnation of my soul.
To gaze upon your truth would be divine, to satiate the withering leaf, and bring forth to this parched parcel, the deluge from your sorrows.
Arid is my earth, penitence to a wretched fluora, and plagued is the crop, the hearts of bitter harvest.

Tend to this meadow, so ashen with the ardent bellows, where dreams wither upon the brow and tomorrow is never veracious. Taunting, untruthful, vain and insidious are the pledges that are never consummated. So upon the sun I scribe in futility, a declaration of my devotion, an intimate portrayal versed in emotion, and whispers delicately spoken from the hearts of bitter harvest, inexorably broken.

The waters that flowed have long since dried, the drought that bends the stalk in agony.
And unrelenting is the howl of the acrid dust, imbued within the winds of profane idiom, that flay the skin with merciless battery.
So poignant is the deplorable rose, whose color is flush with unending misery, who blooms but only for a kiss so as to falsely absolve the hands that thrust the rooted love from the faded terra, the hands that bled once pricked by the dessicated thorn yet failed to acknowledge their own mortal paradox.

Among the vines the hands did bleed, and from that crimson wine so bittersweet, the dying morning glory did recede, against the dimming cries for clemency.
Arid is my earth, no songs sway discourse, the sweet aroma of dissonant bounty, the hearts of bitter harvest.

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.