Tristan Robert Lange
Passion\'s Paradox
Two lovers in the midst of passion’s throws
Could not foresee any of their dark woes.
Clutching together in sweaty embrace,
Two lovers are thrusting in passion’s throws—
Their breath and their motion a rhythmic verse—
The man is guided as he glides in—out.
Clasping together in timeless embrace,
The two lovers—grinding in passion’s throws—
Their shapes move together as though they’re one.
Breathing and moving in a rhythmic verse,
The woman guides his hard glide in and out.
Two ignorant lovers in passion’s throws
Grasping each other in sweaty embrace—
Shapes moving together, as though they’re one.
Two feed off each other as parasites
Breathing and moving in chaotic verse.
His guided, stiffened thrust scrapes in and out;
The broken ones are, in their carnal throws,
Ignoring the other’s need for embrace—
Though moving together, they are not one.
The two are in love with each other’s corpse—
Feeding off the other as parasites—
Breathing, moving in necrophilic verse.
His thrust doesn’t go smoothly in and out,
They ignore each other’s need for embrace.
Though fucking together, they are not one;
Two necrotic lovers in carnal woes.
Cold satin sheets line the black bed of death,
As two are lustful with their corpses.
They expire while in necrophilic verse—
The movement like sandpaper in and out,
Ignoring each other’s need for embrace—
They’re death’s consorts. Fucking, but never one,
Two necrotic lovers in carnal throws,
Did not foresee any of their dark woes.
© 2025 Tristan Robert Lange. All rights reserved.