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.

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…

Copyright © Ernesto Mora@ThePOEMHOME All Rights Reserved.

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.

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