Tristan Robert Lange

Words

The words reverberate—

Echo—

In a chamber of useless guilt

Grown from seed to shoot,

From shoot to stronghold,

From stronghold to sudden singe,

The sulfur hellspiring in smoldering smoke.

Why were they said?

What could I possibly have done?

The questions

Only

r into this constant consumption of my soul,
Where I linger on each word said,

Analyze their every meaning,

Let their letters incise my human heart—

Lacerations leaving me languished.

Moments to minutes,

Minutes to hours,

Hours to days,

A week of anxiety’s acrimony

Antagonizing me,

Judging me,

Scrutinizing me,

Picking me apart

Over words that really held no weight.