Tristan Robert Lange


There was a child

Who longed to live

Life and true love

Of which he’d give.


Dreams of sunlight

And garden trees

Bearing much fruit;

Ripening to please.


Days of innocence,

Of playful dreams,

Came to a hault

Like dried up streams.


The garden a pox,

Death it became,

Dusty and desolate,

A remorseful shame.


His house a tomb,

Cursed with decay.

The boy now a man,

Innocence betrayed.


Dust and bones,

A mortal coil,

The living dead

Becoming a foil.


Withered garden,

A decrepit tomb,

There’s no way to

Retreat to the womb.


Death-head agape,

Displayed on a shelf.

The boy’s a phantom,

Of his former self.



    Very interesting and well written...please see my poem "Phantoms"...take care...Happy New Year

  • sylviasearcher

    Be a phoenix not a phantom?

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