Tristan Robert Lange

The Void

Within the dreary, undiscovered soul
Lies the need to be born,
A dying embodiment of chilled anxiety
Before the wake of ending goodness.

Coffins lie within the entombed mind
Like fields of eternal graves.
The thick stench of decay
Fills the mausoleum of despair.

The entrance to condemnation
Lies within the crusted vessel of life.
The tattered ship bleeds blackened,
Unrefined evil from its gallows.

Suffocating fumes of rotting flesh
Looms in the thickness of insanity
And the inner sanitarium is filled
With the sounds of 1,000 madmen.

Cries spill out into the soundless void
Like piercing shrapnel and rusted metal.
Tension builds with each sound as the
Scraping of bloody knives on steel continue.

Within a momentary time-lapse
The ghastly reaper makes his move,
And miracles fall wayside
Making room for blackened curses.

Nothingness is the dark void
Dwelling in the shady depths of despair,
And the snapping of brittle bone and sinew
Happens within the jaws of monstrous death.

The very essence of non-existence
Lies within battered, tortured souls,
Leaving behind a fragment of life
Amidst the seeping organs of death.