Tristan Robert Lange
Crowing Time
Music mends the soul
In the same way
The mind bends twisted
Around the stumps of despair;
Death’s transcendental stare
Takes hold in the sun’s night.
From misery comes mystery
As the black bus rolls in.
The death-kids are there
Locked in solitary stare—
Fragmented souls
Pour bloody tears
Into the hearts
Of cold-locked cocks
Crowing their awful end.
Death, though, does not kid,
And let’s not pretend
That, as the music mends
And time bends,
We face the trends
That we cannot fend.
You are welcome.
The end.
© 2024 Tristan Robert Lange. All rights reserved.