tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-62398947457159175292011-07-30T22:27:55.600-04:00Intense, erotic, dark, and emotional poetry from the depthsDena L. Moorehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07554448984473658932noreply@blogger.comBlogger51100tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6239894745715917529.post-36116399055991965362011-06-04T09:45:00.001-04:002011-06-04T09:45:49.385-04:00

We could’ve talked, but we didn’t. Our eyes spoke across centuries, Deep recognition of…that something, somewhere Timeless merging, a deep chasm, And I fall into the mystery, An urge to know and not know, Yet…you call in the silence, clear and crisp, Talons sunk deep into phantom flesh Pulling, tugging, opening in inspiration where Lips should touch (but haven’t), Where minds should dance,

Dena L. Moorehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07554448984473658932noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6239894745715917529.post-8929286507192373052010-08-20T20:18:00.002-04:002010-08-20T20:19:13.308-04:00

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

Dena L. Moorehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07554448984473658932noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6239894745715917529.post-91810193288602386492010-07-16T20:45:00.004-04:002010-07-16T20:48:09.627-04:00

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

Dena L. Moorehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07554448984473658932noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6239894745715917529.post-79154653180241716902010-07-06T21:23:00.000-04:002010-07-06T21:23:21.681-04:00

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

Dena L. Moorehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07554448984473658932noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6239894745715917529.post-10144609234097715812010-07-01T21:00:00.001-04:002010-07-01T21:04:45.415-04:00

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

Dena L. Moorehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07554448984473658932noreply@blogger.com0