Tristan Robert Lange

Rigor Mortis

The shape looms in the shadows
As the brittle branches of trees
Creak in the cool, shrill autumn air.
It\'s jaundice eyes pierce the night.

A dreadful feeling of menace
Affixes to the hulk’s fierce stare
That leaves one\'s poor skin writhing

And body in rigor mortis.

The paralysis quickly sets,
A lightning strike to the core,
The dark hunter’s moment arrives
To lurk grimly toward its prey.

Taking advantage of kindness,
Absorbing every ounce of pity,
The monster seizes its victim,
Gorging its lust for the living.

Like a canine that\'s been fed,
The shape looms unsatiated
With the unwary agony
Of beating hearts left open.

Each new victim falls for it,
For the damaged soul\'s cry,
Which precedes the rabid bite
That seals their doomed fate.

The violation of purity is
The mark of this shadowy ghoul,
The total blasphemous sign
That can\'t be erased or undone.

Necrosis besieges the arteries
Of the beating, bleeding vessel—
The seeping venom of the hydra
Quickens the approach of death.