Tristan Robert Lange

Flytrap

The song of death birds

Trills through the air,

The gray morning dense

With infernal moisture.

Everything sticks

To the putrid flytrap

Of my suffocating soul.

Another death.

Black light magnificent

Glows neon violet

Shade upon my mind

Locked in a music box.

The tune haunts me

As it clicks through

With mechanical precision.

The song has found me—

Again.

© 2024 Tristan Robert Lange. All rights reserved.