The Well Poem, by Tristan Robert Lange, at My poetic side

Alone in a dark wood sits a well—

Stone, strong, sturdy—

Its head made of ebony,

Dark, shaded, yet simmering in light

F i l t e r i n g

Though spiderwebbed branches.

Drawing closer it grows in size,

Built as one of stature.

The moss emits neon green

Around wraithgray iron ore.

The well walls run with rust,

Its tears are oxblood rivers

Oozing outside upon dry rock.

This well seems unwell,

Yet, still, it is inviting,

Alluring—

It calls with orange glitter,

Effervescent peat,

And radiant shadowood;

All covered with phantom seep.

The call reverberates:

Lean over,

Peer down,

Search deep—

Just a little more for sight.

The fall could happen quick,

And no matter the outer visage,

Inside the well is sick—

Its walls a spectral stream,

Absorbing the moon’s gleam

Like tar paper.

This isn’t a trap.

It’s a choice:

To stay outside where it seems sound,

Or to plunge into the darkness around.

What lies within is not the sin—

But the wellhead that dares to cover it.

Tittu

Author: Tristan Robert Lange ( Online)
Published: February 25th, 2026 08:58
Comment from author about the poem: I’m published in an anthology featuring authors from across the Poconos, PA. All proceeds benefit the Pocono Liars Club — a collective of authors and editors dedicated to supporting and mentoring local writers. Available in paperback and Kindle, please consider purchasing one and supporting a great cause. https://a.co/d/58uxM69
Category: Gothic
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