Tristan Robert Lange

riverbeds

the inner darkness is

in-

escape-

able.

everything is like pitch—

every-

thing

except for the soft surface,

a milky terrain,

un-

interrupted almost without

exception,

but failing to be

exceptional.

The terrain, home to dried

up

riverbeds,

is

otherwise without blemish.

tracing a path along such

forgotten streams

of when the

blood

flowed

with

ev-

er-

y

single hurt inflicted

on a seeking heart—

a soul in need of

the

very

thing

that they were doomed to

be denied—time and again.

tracing every single riverbed,

carved unnaturally

with

such

pain—

full

precision—the work of an

anxious hand steadied by

despair’s

deadly

focus;

each

riverbed

a reminder to me that I have

always been this broken.

though the rivers have dried up,

though their crimson waters

are no longer let,

their flow

no

longer

has

the

same

pull.

healed,

dull-red riverbeds,

almost brown,

lead one to the

place where

i almost

drowned

in pools of my own pain.

a secret place filled with

secret

re-

lease.

these riverbeds may be dry,

but the pain

never

goes

a

w

a

y

.

© 2025 Tristan Robert Lange. All rights reserved.