Tristan Robert Lange

A Cut

There’s a cut on my finger.

A cut, with blood.

No guts, no glory,

Just a cut.

A mystery.

The cut appeared

Like a chocolate smear.

It tastes metallic, not like chocolat—

The cut, deep red

Raspberry preserves

Without the sweetness.

Stinging with pain,

Slowly manifested,

As the viscous flow

Becomes a sticky syrup

Coating the crack,

A grotesque fissure

Fragmenting

My once forgotten flesh.

No more.

The fissure,

A hardening new terrain

Crusting and covering

In a purple-brown,

Blackish-red clay.

Soon enough,

Days, maybe a week,

Maybe slightly more,

It won’t even be a memory;

Yet, there will be room

For another

Mysterious

Cut.

© 2025 Tristan Robert Lange. All rights reserved.