Tristan Robert Lange

Cryogenic Catharsis

It’s a decent amount.

A load.

My legs are exposed

To a world hellbent.

Ambulatory ambulance.

The roses wilt in a bowl,

The coals of rigidity burn.

Burning embers ignite.

Dancing can be cathartic.

I feel silly in these shoes.

Can I fit into this chair?

Who is it mocking me?

I know your face,

Names elude me.

Catharsis cryogenic.

I feel frozen.

Is it snowing out?

The white haze blurs.

There’s a fire in the sky.

Screaming is cathartic.

The stars are hidden,

A nighttime walk,

Family talks,

The support is real.

I feel cold.

Can we turn up the heat?

My mouth hurts.

Well, not my mouth.

My voice.

My voice is the murder of my throat.

Scapegoat.

Scraped, coats with blood.

I try to escape;

I’m weighed down.

Eat my frown.

Cat claws me.

Bleeding is cathartic.

© 2024 Tristan Robert Lange. All rights reserved.