The earth, thawing,
Prepares a warming,
Moist, cradle for
Life’s seeds.
Once attached,
Strong,
Enclosed by the chaff—
Held in by the spike,
Undefiled
And without disturbance—
The wind blowed,
The rain pounded,
The tall grass endured.
Until it didn’t.
Slowly, surely,
It began to age,
Its color collapsed,
Its hue humbled,
Less vibrant,
Faded—
The color of straw.
Each blade a pale pallor,
Hardened,
Wooden,
Dried-up,
The smell of decay
In Sleepy Hollow.
Where each seed detatches
And is blown off
Like the head of a Hessian
Horseman with horrific hubris,
Charging a calibrated canon.
Together, these headless stalks—
Golden without their lustre—
Stand tall, but doomed,
Destined for winter’s weakening weight,
Crushed under death’s design,
Frozen,
brittle,
b r o
k
e
n
,
Fo r g o t t e n.
Life’s seeds are all that remain
Locked in slumber.
Awaiting their chance
To soften, to sprout, to shoot,
To grow, to harden,
To weather, to wither,
To die.
Life carries on
As the grass withers
And the flowers fade.
A cycle captive—
Caught up in
Futility.
© 2025 Tristan Robert Lange. All rights reserved.
-
Author:
Tristan Robert Lange (
Online) - Published: May 4th, 2025 06:53
- Category: Gothic
- Views: 1
Online)
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