Tristan Robert Lange

The Pecking

These are the words I write

Sitting up in my writer’s loft,

A crow perched above

Plastic keys—

Glowing ebony—

I peck out the pain from my heart.

I thought I would be the one—

You know the one?—

The one who wrote the songs,

The one who made ice melt,

The one who made the oceans swell,

The one who made the moon rise

While silencing the world below.

E a c h p e c k f e e l s

L i k e b l u n t t r a u m a

T o m y s o r e h e a d.

These are the words I write,

Not from above—as on high—

But from below,

A disheveled raven

Rattled by reverberant reclusivity—

Thrust upon me, never chosen—

Retreating in resignation and remorse;

A creature stuck in purgatory

Beneath hollow heavens raining down hell.

© 2025 Tristan Robert Lange. All rights reserved.