Tristan Robert Lange

The Stare

He’s sitting over there—

The stare—

Sitting in the corner,

In the smoky dark

Recess—

There is no progress.

The stare,

Sharply focused

Over here—

I feel the fear

Forever frozen

Like fractal fragments

Fomenting in my mind.

The stare—

From over there—

Glances my way

From his wrought iron chair—

A stare from which

There is no

Compare!

And I’ve become

Ever aware

That without any care,

While sitting over there

In the steel bone throne,

A man with wiry hair

Has locked me deep within

The clutches of

His damnable

Stare!

© 2024 Tristan Robert Lange. All rights reserved.