Notice of absence from Tristan Robert Lange
Life is full of seasons. This is a season of transition for me, where I will be moving with my family to a new location. As such, with much logistics to consider, I am doing my best to keep up. Please know if I accidentally don't respond, it is not because I am ghosting or becoming distant. Once things settle after the move, I am sure life will return to some normalcy. In the meantime, and always:
Read 👓, Write ✍️, Rise 🌅, Realize 🤯.
Tristan 🌹🖤🙏🕯️🐦⬛
Life is full of seasons. This is a season of transition for me, where I will be moving with my family to a new location. As such, with much logistics to consider, I am doing my best to keep up. Please know if I accidentally don't respond, it is not because I am ghosting or becoming distant. Once things settle after the move, I am sure life will return to some normalcy. In the meantime, and always:
Read 👓, Write ✍️, Rise 🌅, Realize 🤯.
Tristan 🌹🖤🙏🕯️🐦⬛
What's in a birth?
Expectations?
Anticipations?
The Conception of hope?
Sloppy, passionate sex?
Conception?
Anything more?
Maybe less?
Pain persistent
Yet transient for mom?
Perhaps, but is it?
Then there comes life
Like a weed grown
In a weed-choked garden,
Raw and crude.
"Death makes angels of us all!?"
Maybe.
Life makes demons of us all
And gives us horns
Rough as jackal paws.
Life consumes the born,
It perverts us.
What's in a birth?
Beauty twisted by pain,
Writhing like a wraith,
To the cacophonous end
Of all celebrations.
"I will not go,"
I scream defiantly!
But is there any choice?
Death is the muse
That life gifts us.
Expectations?
Anticipations?
The Conception of hope?
Sloppy, passionate sex?
Conception?
Anything more?
Maybe less?
Pain persistent
Yet transient for mom?
Perhaps, but is it?
Then there comes life
Like a weed grown
In a weed-choked garden,
Raw and crude.
"Death makes angels of us all!?"
Maybe.
Life makes demons of us all
And gives us horns
Rough as jackal paws.
Life consumes the born,
It perverts us.
What's in a birth?
Beauty twisted by pain,
Writhing like a wraith,
To the cacophonous end
Of all celebrations.
"I will not go,"
I scream defiantly!
But is there any choice?
Death is the muse
That life gifts us.
POET’S NOTE:
Part of The Thinking Dark collection.
© 2024 Tristan Robert Lange. All rights reserved.
First published on MyPoeticSide.com, July 15, 2024.
Tittu
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Author:
Tristan Robert Lange (
Online) - Published: July 15th, 2024 20:37
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 23
- Users favorite of this poem: aDarkerMind
- In collections: The Thinking Dark.
Online)
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