Tristan Robert Lange

Widow Makers

Once upon a dreamy reading—ravens cawed—my heart was beating

Even faster than a widow maker ever has beat before.

I browsed Scripture, holy prompting, rapidly I found it daunting.

Now upon this dreamy reading—ravens caw—my heart still beating,

Hope this feeling’s truly fleeting, completely gone—gone—I implore.

It is terrible, I declare—beating—my heart feels as if it’s bleeding.

I scan Scripture, holy prompting, I continue to find it daunting.

Still within this dreamy reading—ravens crow—my heart speed-beating,

As if it’s about to remember my past and settle the score.

Hope this reading’s truly fleeting, completely done—done—I implore.

It is horrible, I decry! Bleeding, my heart pangs—still beating

Here within this draining reading—ravens stare—my heart jump-beating,

I search Scripture, instinct urging, it continues to grow daunting

As if to resurrect my bitter past and settle that old score.

Within this tome there’s nothing more than a mirror for me to pore.

I hope this image’s fleeting—completely over—I implore.

It’s horrible, I decry—beating—my heart hurts as it’s bleeding

Here within this draining reading—ravens squawk—my heart jump-beating,

I search the Word, panic driving, it has risen beyond daunting

For it’s resurrected my bitter past and is settling that score.

There is no escape, no place to hide—I am stuck here inside

Within this tome—this tomb—there’s nothing left, no pride to restore.

I hope this dark state’s fleeting—totally over—I implore.

It’s horrible, I decry—beating—my heart hurts as it’s bleeding

I search the Book, horror stalking, it has transformed to a haunting

For it’s resurrected my horrid past and is a most consuming spore.

Here stuck in this killer reading—ravens’ beaks—my heart skips beating,

If I had learned long ago, if I had swallowed my pride, I am sure

There’d be an escape, no need to hide—no prison here inside.

I know this state’s not fleeting—forever weather—what’s to explore?

It’s imminent, I proclaim—bleeding—lungs filled, I am not breathing.

I drop the Book—death’s gaze staring, it has murdered me—this haunting

Resurrected, embodying my horrid past; a tragic score.

Here stuck in this death position—ravens peck—my chest-meat gristled

Even more as the widow makers continue to peck and gore.

First published on tristanrobertlange.com, May 15, 2026.

Tittu