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...

-Ernesto Mora