Tristan Robert Lange
anvil clouds and phantom corridors
the house of haunts stands alone
atop
a hlll that looms over and
above
like saturated cumulonimbus
clouds
anvil-shaped pressing down
on us ants
below
towering over tresspassers like a lone
tom
peeping in on a torrid affair in a
secluded
off-road motel
but no affair could ever be the blame for this
malignant
manor of menacing memories
the mephistophelian
monstrosity
a mystery solved by its very name
gamed
the story of its inhabitants
displayed
as the tour continues
on
room by room
each contemptuous cooridor
chilling
and shilling the wanton wanderer
into a permanant
residence
the foyer a fascinating find
filled
forever with the hope of new
beginnings
an entrance into to otherwise
haunted
hallways and caustic chambers
hollow
horrid cloistered cries
come
from within the weary western wing
where
one soul was abandoned and
weaponized
so that no one would draw
near
every one of the other rooms
emptied
and entirely emaciated
as if the sullen structure was
starved
of sustainability
the wall stones weathered
away
to reveal embossed
imprints
of the malevolent memories
mercilessly
mobilized by activity within
faces
forever fomenting fears
formed
in the forgotten woodwork
framed
and whittled by a ghost
glazed
with the glitter of what used to be
there
the ghoul stands translucent
goring
me with garish eyes that will not be
satiated
sorrow stays its course in the dead
delinquent
of serenity in life
dormant
in its deliberate and dominant
stare
the ghost reaches, raising the need for
recession
sadly, we turn to find the foyer
missing
and its door now
forgotten
© 2025 Tristan Robert Lange. All rights reserved.