Tristan Robert Lange

The Sound of Rain

The blank eyes’ gaze pierces,

Unflinching,

It stares with cold lament.

Tears, rolling over

and welling up,

Stream

in translucent white—

A crystal riverbed

On marble flesh.

The tears flow down

Chiseled cheeks—

And drip-drop off

Into a puddle below.

Below the face,

Frozen in permanent position,

Praying hands point

Heavenward

Toward a gray, dull,

Shapeless void,

Blocking out

The daylight.

Tombstones

Are lone witnesses

In the somber scene.

As the whole form

Comes into focus,

The rain showers

Down in a billion

Riverbeds

Of sullen

Sorrow.

The gray grass

Pokes through

The mirrored puddle;

Reflections of

The statue’s stoic

Sadness

Are seen by a silent sky.

Only the sound of the rain can be heard.

© 2025 Tristan Robert Lange. All rights reserved.

January 8, 2025

East Stroudsburg, PA