Tristan Robert Lange

unwound

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unwound

there’s a certain kind of poetry that soul-exists and sings — a lyric of the soul that scars as its lines lacerate you from within — rather, it screams in muted agony; duct-tape deliberation. i chose silence rather than suffer the probability of the song taking flight into the otherwise silent night.

an artist has to do what is necessary to keep their new masterpiece a mystery, you know?

,understand really don’t you maybe
.end the in not matters it but
the stops one either

intrusion of voices echoing a cacophony of moral hedging, or they realize that they will plummet into the black mold abyss of madness, the cerebral choking on spectral spores in

a solitary
spectator’s
sport. i chose silence, yet i can hear it. can you? that awful
,almost trill a ,thin-paper sounds it .clicking not…no…clicking ?sound
what feels like a skitterer’s wings. i think i see something as the

light flickers —

darkness is all that is left of the once embered horizon. The crisp-dry fluttering

continues

— !oh…there…there over
.anymore it stand cannot really i

they because silence chose i
would never
shut the hell up.

even now that shrill trill, that hellish, fluttering — a pulse almost — buzz-humming in my ear like an angry yellow jacket…but they’re over…there

beneath
the
field
,dreams of
now
night-
mares generated by that hideous sound of beetles burrowing in their brains

and

decrepit the like sanity my unraveling
.mummy ancient an of bandages

i cannot resist and so i run over there,
and frantically claw to find where i hid
,face their
creating nails my under soil the
feel them makes that pressure a

they

might just pop, until they tear flesh. i look down and behold, within the hollow of their eyes, the Deathwatches ticked and clicked my loathsome name.

First published on tristanrobertlange.com, April 20, 2026.

Tittu