A Blackened Room

Lightning strikes an empty sky
Piercing the darkness of you and I,
The call of the night, the shrouded light
Of an existence laid to rest
Yet rumbling, scratching at the chest.
Thunder born of discontent,
A half-faded farewell never meant -
Glass and wood, mud and mold,
A fresh-dug hole yawning bold,
Illuminated by the sudden flash
Striking open this wound, slice and slash.
This is the mood, a blackened room
Shifting with spirit, a moving tomb;
This is the storm, the rising flood,
A corpse left floating in bitter blood.

Dena L Moore
February 7, 2009

Water and Stone, Ice and Flame

It’s the clash of water on stone,
The mountain top bald and beckoning,
Waiting for the storm to take shape, to mold
The stark whiteness into dark echoes and ridges.

It’s the hiss of ice on flame,
The crackle and spark rising fiercely,
Forcing the solid into liquid form, drenching
It’s own source; extinguishing it’s heat.

It’s the essence of you and I,
Water and Stone,
Ice and Flame,
Urging and beckoning, guiding and shaping

One another, changing our essence as
We clash and spark,
As we hiss and flow together,
A waterfall of emotions flaring up


Then calming into a gentle bend
In the river, a slow-moving cascade gliding
Over ancient rock, the foundation shaping
The flow, soothing us as we carve new ridges


In one another’s life.


Dena L Moore
June 27, 2009

Hades Moon

I chose the path of The Hades Moon,
The rite of life and death.
I bit into the pomegranate
And cast my lot.
It was not from hunger
I tasted the fruit,
But out of obsession,
Out of compulsion for Him
Who rules the dark depths.
Queen of the Underworld I am
And I do not deny the title.
Persephone the witch, the prophetess,
The mystical doomsayer.
Paranoia and revenge are the underpinnings
Of my soul, the heights of passion my addiction,
The healing touch my transformation.
Above the crust, light shines forth
Waiting for the day I will rise up with my King,
My Hades, My Love, My Life.


Dena L. Moore
December 11, 2001

Entwined

Entwined

Tangled and twisted, a coil of shed skin,
Crushed petals caught in the vine
Thinly-veiled - smooth and pulsating -
     Vulnerable.
A pattern revealed in the dusk;
A bleeding heart swollen, exposing the crimson,
Bright on white, oh so bright,
Caught in the dance of drifting petals,
Moonbeam plucked one by one…


Two horns twist in a feral beauty –
To conquer, to glorify the rush of life as
It lifts…crushes…betrays…
White petals on red, floating down upon his back.
He lifts his head, nose to the wind.
The scent’s strong, rising up, the vine caught
Upon his horns, punctured and permeated,
Entwined.

Dena L Moore
July 1, 2010