Tristan Robert Lange

shape of a prayer

Note: Best viewed on a PC/Mac, but if on your phone, hold horizontal for full shape effect.

they stood there

still and swaying,

hair brightly glowing—

floating upward—

hot cotton-ball-white,

clouds covered their

thunderclap face—

eyeballs of electric-

blue light enveloped

voids of LED glow.

an alabaster crevice

separated two stern,

leviathan-ash lips.

their vestments white-

smoldering smoke,

their collar—stole—

the deepest obsidian.

arms stretched outward to each side, forming the cross-section

of a roman cross, the patibulum humanum, the weight of pain

put on them like hot-cruciform irons coaling their weary eyes.

yet instead of searing screams, backwards prayers uttered

become the clue that something was different, something was

changed—nay—i am

the one who changed.

they started with amen,

the prayer an answer,

never a pathetic petition.

i realized they stood not,

but hung hopefully happy—

inverted—peering deep

into irony’s reflection.

Poet’s Note:

A shape/concrete poem for Scorched Sunday. A part of my Scorched Strays series. Today, I am the scorched stray on display. But what happens when one realizes they enjoy the flames?

First published on tristanrobertlange.com, November 16, 2025.

Tittu