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 🌹🖤🙏🕯️🐦⬛
Life flowed through her veins, coursed from her heart to her brain—her life, her blood.
Lids open, her blank irises a grey fog upon pearl white eyes.
This is, right here, the exact problem I face—this is my damn curse—
To wander eternally as a monster—a hunter at night,
A beast of horrific fright, who then takes flight away from the pain
I caused—a pitiful demon with a soul, not living—not quite death.
Not true of this poor lady, some young bloke’s wife, who lies in bed—death.
She would not be dead but for my own bloody head gulping her blood—
My fangs penetrating her silky flesh, tender to my sharp pain.
But, there the wretched woman lay on bed, undressed—even her eyes—
Nipples soft’ning as her life’s flow—no longer wild—enters its night.
O, woe is me! What a wretched wraith—nay, a ghoul!—a walking curse.
Could I have ever imagined this, in any lifetime, this harsh curse—
My decomposing body—a jackal burned, no fur—walking death?
So I flew on foot—unlike a good gentleman should—in the night.
Me, a moral man,—chased tolike a villain—because I thirst for blood.
I did not ask for this, but look!—there are the lynchers! Yes!—my eyes
See them raging, coming my way—Christians—coming to inflict pain.
But they!—they who fear their own shadows—can’t catch me! That is their pain—
Their nightmare, their weakness, their foible to face—that is their own curse.
I move on to a young bloke I make my escape on by—lit eyes,
Gilttering like fireworks, hypnotizing my next prey into death.
Then I sup, I have a fantastic feast—I gorge on his hot blood—
As fog rolls in and hides me away from those hunting me this night.
This is forever useless, a hopeless cause, to deny the night.
All it does is cause me, and every creature around me, pain.
Maybe I should keep it up, be the monster obsessed with their blood.
People, heaven must know it, have been my truest, long-lasting curse.
I have every right to hunt them down—steal their lifeforce—bring death.
Those hypocrites and their torches, hunting me with hate in their eyes.
Nay!—I cannot allow their inferiority shift my eyes
From seeing the truth of the wretched beast I am night after night,
Seeking to gorge and devour my pray—to stop I must meet death.
Though I know that this terrible demise equals fiery pain,
I can no longer carry on in this goddamned state, living under God’s curse,
Grieving the lives lost, their putrid rot while my tongue laps up more blood.
Deep beyond my own two eyes, my third eye sees the fires of my pain,
Vesuvius, which lights the night, will be the hot end to this curse.
Then I will meet my own death, the end of my fiendish reign of blood.
© 2025 Tristan Robert Lange. All rights reserved.
First published on tristanrobertlange.com, September 29, 2025.
Tittu
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Author:
Tristan Robert Lange (
Offline) - Published: September 29th, 2025 07:28
- Comment from author about the poem: For Macabre Monday. This is the third part in my series, Devilishly Dreadful. Inspired by the sprawling penny dreadful Varney the Vampire; or, The Feast of Blood (1845–47), this poem distills the knight’s tortured hunger into the relentless cadence of a sestina. Varney was no elegant immortal but a grotesque figure of remorse, appetite, and futility — cursed to feed, cursed to survive. Here, his horror reaches a fiery resolution in Vesuvius, where Gothic imagination become molten myth.
- Category: Gothic
- Views: 16
- Users favorite of this poem: Friendship
- In collections: Devilishly Dreadful: A Macabre Monday Series.
Offline)
Comments5
Vivid and sharp. Excellent work.
Thanks, Thomas. Much appreciated, my friend. 🎭👻🙏🖤
The myth of the vampire a desire for immortality the desire for sexuality a form of incubus coming from a dreamland preying on young and vulnerable women. A fun read Tristan
Thanks, my friend. I’ve always seen Varney less as elegant and more as grotesque desire and futility. Glad that came through and the poem delivered. 🎭👻🙏🖤
You are most welcome
Well written, the poem explores the anguish and torment of a being cursed with vampirism, highlighting the internal struggle between the desire for life and the compulsion to inflict death. The speaker grapples with their monstrous nature and the guilt associated with the lives they take, ultimately seeking redemption or release from their cursed existence.❤️👍
Much appreciated, Friendship. You caught that core tension…the desire for life against the compulsion to destroy. That’s the curse exactly. 🎭👻🙏🖤 Rock on!
I have to confess, without prejudice (or some such nonsense) Tristan, that I had trouble finishing this piece... in fact...🤢😂
Haha, much appreciated, Dave. In fact, yay! That 🤢 says you felt the gore in full…exactly the effect I was aiming for. 🎭👻🙏🖤 Much appreciated!
A pleasure doing business with you, Tristan !!
Always, Dave!
Blimey! A fine gothic write. This reminded me of Poe. Nicely done.
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