Tristan Robert Lange
Athena\'s Siren Song
Roads wind their way like snakes.
Others driving, stopping, sight-seeing.
Universally considered hallowed ground,
Never to be more hollowed than it is.
Down below, no one is even aware.
Tethered by dead men’s tales, markers scattered
Only to be remembered more than those dead.
Parlance performed by powder puff blasts.
Verity is in a vacuum of venom.
Idealization has become irony’s whore.
Enamored by the monuments of marred memory,
We fall back into Athena’s siren song.
Poet’s Note:
Written atop Little Round Top in Gettysburg National Military Park, Gettysburg, PA.
© 2025 Tristan Robert Lange. All rights reserved.
First published on tristanrobertlange.com, February 20, 2026.
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