Tristan Robert Lange

The Skull Tumbler Below

What to write when there is nothing to write?

The thought of that is such an ugly fright,

As it has become this poet’s poor plight

On this lonesome, haunting and dreadful night.

The windows rattling, the curtains frayed,

The floorboards creaking, leaving me dismayed.

A black cat’s haunt sitting where it once played,

Causing tears to flood—my broke heart is splayed.

Beneath my poet’s loft comes a rumbling

Of the sound of many skulls a tumbling

In a dryer with dead leaves crumbling—

Keeps my mouth agape, now I’m bumbling.

But—ooh—what a blessing from something foul,

Which led me to scream out the loudest howl.

My mind at work and my quill on the prowl;

The shadows covered me—the poet’s cowl.

The images formed, while the words I wrote down,

With each measured line I reversed my frown.

The scratcings on parchment, my precious crown,

Jeweled and bedazzled, like a flowing gown.

Sitting here having seen this wonder through,

I am no longer lost without a clue.

All it takes is some horror to come in view,

And I will always know just what to do.

© 2025 Tristan Robert Lange. All rights reserved.