Tristan Robert Lange

Numbers

A universe of shapes,

Star bursts...

Music notes...

Galaxies swirling overhead

And in my distant soul—

A black hole—

Nothingness.

Grinding metal grating

In my ears—

Cathartic to hear—

Let the blood run.

Never fun to drain

The crimson fever

From my veins.

But the poison

Cannot, must not remain.

I can no longer afford to feign

How fucked up shit is!

O, how this world is a stain

Hellbent on hate, S8an’s gate—

It can hardly wait 4 its f8.

600 and 66 ways to chase,

To fuck, and 2 deliber8

4 zero reasons

Other than, wait for it,

H8.

The numbers etch,

Brand, rather,

Their infernal imprint

On the naive willing

2 4feit themselves

4 a 4king

P1pe

Dr3am.

© 2024 Tristan Robert Lange. All rights reserved