Notice of absence from Tristan Robert Lange
I am lagging slightly in my responses to comments on my poems due to a crazy schedule. I will be catching up on them soon. I have read them all and will find the time to respond, but did not want you to think I was ghosting. In the meantime, and always:
Read, Write, Rise, Realize.
Tristan 🌹🖤🙏🕯️🐦⬛
I am lagging slightly in my responses to comments on my poems due to a crazy schedule. I will be catching up on them soon. I have read them all and will find the time to respond, but did not want you to think I was ghosting. In the meantime, and always:
Read, Write, Rise, Realize.
Tristan 🌹🖤🙏🕯️🐦⬛
FORMATTING NOTE:
Due to layout limitations, this poem is intended to be viewed as a PDF, formatted out as seen in the image above. The unformatted text is below. To view the original formatting, please visit: https://tristanrobertlange.com/2026/04/20/unwound/
Due to layout limitations, this poem is intended to be viewed as a PDF, formatted out as seen in the image above. The unformatted text is below. To view the original formatting, please visit: https://tristanrobertlange.com/2026/04/20/unwound/
unwound
there’s a certain kind of poetry that soul-exists and sings — a lyric of the soul that scars as its lines lacerate you from within — rather, it screams in muted agony; duct-tape deliberation. i chose silence rather than suffer the probability of the song taking flight into the otherwise silent night.
an artist has to do what is necessary to keep their new masterpiece a mystery, you know?
or
,understand really don’t you maybe
.end the in not matters it but
the stops one either
.end the in not matters it but
the stops one either
intrusion of voices echoing a cacophony of moral hedging, or they realize that they will plummet into the black mold abyss of madness, the cerebral choking on spectral spores in
a solitary
spectator’s
sport. i chose silence, yet i can hear it. can you? that awful
,almost trill a ,thin-paper sounds it .clicking not…no…clicking ?sound
what feels like a skitterer’s wings. i think i see something as the
spectator’s
sport. i chose silence, yet i can hear it. can you? that awful
,almost trill a ,thin-paper sounds it .clicking not…no…clicking ?sound
what feels like a skitterer’s wings. i think i see something as the
light flickers —
darkness is all that is left of the once embered horizon. The crisp-dry fluttering
continues
— !oh…there…there over
.anymore it stand cannot really i
.anymore it stand cannot really i
they because silence chose i
would never
shut the hell up.
would never
shut the hell up.
even now that shrill trill, that hellish, fluttering — a pulse almost — buzz-humming in my ear like an angry yellow jacket…but they’re over…there
beneath
the
field
,dreams of
now
night-
mares generated by that hideous sound of beetles burrowing in their brains
the
field
,dreams of
now
night-
mares generated by that hideous sound of beetles burrowing in their brains
and
decrepit the like sanity my unraveling
.mummy ancient an of bandages
.mummy ancient an of bandages
i cannot resist and so i run over there,
and frantically claw to find where i hid
,face their
creating nails my under soil the
feel them makes that pressure a
and frantically claw to find where i hid
,face their
creating nails my under soil the
feel them makes that pressure a
they
might just pop, until they tear flesh. i look down and behold, within the hollow of their eyes, the Deathwatches ticked and clicked my loathsome name.
© 2026 Tristan Robert Lange. All rights reserved.
First published on tristanrobertlange.com, April 20, 2026.
Tittu
-
Author:
Tristan Robert Lange (
Offline) - Published: April 20th, 2026 10:18
- Comment from author about the poem: Written in response to Sparkle City Magic’s “Mystical Adventure ~ Edition #31 🔮✨”, incorporating five prompts: poetry, madness, lantern, horizon, and pulse.
- Category: Gothic
- Views: 11
- Users favorite of this poem: Friendship
Offline)
Comments5
🤔🤔Now this is an amazing Art. Your poem revolves around the contrast between artistic creation and mental anguish. The poet feels overwhelmed by intrusive thoughts and sounds, which they liken to a physical presence threatening their sanity. The imagery of insects, decay, and darkness serves to symbolize the fear of losing one's mind and the struggle to maintain control over one's inner world. Well written. My friend.👍💕🌹
Friendship, that means a lot…this one really came from sitting in that noise until it started taking shape. I had the initial idea of a mummy, but didn’t want to write a straight “mummy” poem…so I let the poem become it…unraveling as it moves. I’m really glad you were there with it…you caught everything I was wrestling with, my insightful friend. 🔥🪨🕯️🙏
Tristan this gothic surreal poem weaves and wends its way across the page. You said acrostic but I am too dull to find it. Well done my friend
Soren, that’s on me, my friend…wrong note got pasted in there. 😅 I’ve fixed it now. I really appreciate your read though…that weaving, surreal unwinding movement was the heart of it for me. The poem is the mummy, rather than it being about one. Always grateful for you and your insights, my friend. 🔥🪨🕯️🙏f
You are always most welcome Tristan have a great day
Yes! Duct tape needed - we won't hear the glugs! Or will we? lol.
Orchi…you slap the duct tape on, step back like you’ve solved it…and then the glugs start again, just a little closer this time. At that point you just accept it’s their house now. A Glugority House one might even call it. 🤣🪲🕳️🙏🖤
My fault is to read about healing, reverse the wound healing, but this is written as a deliberate unravelling; the mind’s bindings snapping under pressure. The poem shows the moment before recovery, when what was tightly contained finally breaks open. It’s the rupture that makes healing imaginable, not the healing itself. Superbly creative on the page🕊️🙏
My friend, you stepped right into that breaking point…not the aftermath, not the recovery…just that exact second where it all gives way. That’s where this sits, and I’m grateful you saw it. 🪲🕳️🙏🖤
Me too! 🕊️🙏🏻👍🏻
Fevered and claustrophobic—this feels like a mind turning in on itself, where sound becomes threat and silence fails to hold.
The grit is in the unraveling: language breaking apart as the speaker does, until even thought starts to rot and crawl.
Thomas…yeah, that’s it…it closes in until there’s nowhere left to turn. You felt that pressure, and I’m glad you stepped into it with me. 🪲🕳️🙏🖤
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