Tristan Robert Lange

The Well

Alone in a dark wood sits a well—

Stone, strong, sturdy—

Its head made of ebony,

Dark, shaded, yet shimmering in light

F i l t e r i n g

Though spiderwebbed branches.

Drawing closer it grows in size,

Built as one of stature.

The moss emits neon green

Around wraithgray iron ore.

The well walls run with rust,

Its tears are oxblood rivers

Oozing outside upon dry rock.

This well seems unwell,

Yet, still, it is inviting,

Alluring—

It calls with orange glitter,

Effervescent peat,

And radiant shadowood;

All covered with phantom seep.

The call reverberates:

Lean over,

Peer down,

Search deep—

Just a little more for sight.

The fall could happen quick,

And no matter the outer visage,

Inside the well is sick—

Its walls a spectral stream,

Absorbing the moon’s gleam

Like tar paper.

This isn’t a trap.

It’s a choice:

To stay outside where it seems sound,

Or to plunge into the darkness around.

What lies within is not the sin—

But the wellhead that dares to cover it.

© 2025 Tristan Robert Lange. All rights reserved.

First published on tristanrobertlange.com, February 25, 2025.

Tittu