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 🌹🖤🙏🕯️🐦⬛
listen in—really strain—
this will come in whisper soft:
he writes poems—fame the gain—
politics his other name,
no one sponsoring a liability
leads to financial instability;
arsenic agility—consumption—
chatterton conversations
ending silent and tragic
in the lonely attic.
© 2026 Tristan Robert Lange. All rights reserved.
First published on tristanrobertlange.com, August 25, 2026.
Tittu
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Author:
Tristan Robert Lange (
Online) - Published: August 25th, 2026 08:06
- Comment from author about the poem: Part of the Truth, Applied collection. Thomas Chatterton (1752–1770) was an English poet and political writer who died in a London garret at seventeen, his death commonly attributed to arsenic poisoning. This poem was written on August 24, 2026, exactly 256 years after his death. Celebrated after his death as a doomed poetic genius, he became more legend than child. This poem resists that romanticization. It looks instead toward the poverty, dependence upon patronage, and social abandonment beneath the beautiful tragedy later made of him.
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 4
- Users favorite of this poem: A.N.
- In collections: Truth, Applied.

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