Tristan Robert Lange

Worm Wood

The husk worms stand still,

Almost tree-like—

Each less and less visible—

In the white, acid-flash

Scorched air; the earth

Salt-crusted with lye.

Noxious gases

Are all that remain,

Remnant of

Worm’s meat

Digested.

Their branch-like tentacles

Reach out to feast

On beasts of air.

No one dare,

Unless unaware,

Ever venture

There.

So, please—dear child,

Have a care.

I know that

Your swing set was there,

But you’re now in the know.

We cannot stick around,

We have to go—

No, that is not snow.

Trust me, you cannot touch it

For acid truly burns,

And that lye comes directly

From those worms.

But we do have to go,

Once we leave here

Then I can show.

I have gifts and

Turkish Delights,

Presents for you,

Ones beyond this fright.

I know, I know—

Precious, one—I know.

This was not like this

Last night—before I arrived.

Thank G...goodness I came when I did.

Now, let’s go.

I can hold you so you don’t burn—

You’re so smart but wait your turn—

Yes, yes I have special shoes

To carry you.

No struggle, no need to fight,

No need to show you’re right.

I can get you away from this horrid sight,

Away from lye and away from light.

Here, give me your hand,

I can lift you where I stand,

Honestly, there’s no need to scoff,

You can come, or I’ll steal you off.

Either way, it’s destination Leveler’s Land.

© 2025 Tristan Robert Lange. All rights reserved.

First published on tristanrobertlange.com, November 20, 2025.

Tittu