Notice of absence from Tristan Robert Lange
Friends, I’m doing my best to keep up with comments. 😅 I’m still current on my own poems and first replies on others’ work, but this season has been a bit of a twister. Figured I’d drop a quick note so you don’t think I’ve vanished or gone flaky.
Read. Write. Rise. Realize. 🤘💀🖤
Friends, I’m doing my best to keep up with comments. 😅 I’m still current on my own poems and first replies on others’ work, but this season has been a bit of a twister. Figured I’d drop a quick note so you don’t think I’ve vanished or gone flaky.
Read. Write. Rise. Realize. 🤘💀🖤
Awake! No rest for the weary
As the sunshine grows dreary,
As the savannah sounds eerie,
The ghosts of the grass—they yell.
Rise up! The wicked are woken,
By a pale and unseemly token
Of death which is hardly unspoken.
From grace, to hell, he fell.
What a pallor fit for the grave,
The color of a ruthless knave,
Whose soul to Satan he gave
At the tolling of the bell.
Sickly skull and sunken face,
He looked so damned out of place.
If he was bludgeoned by a mace,
His death will surely never tell.
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Author:
Tristan Robert Lange (
Offline) - Published: July 24th, 2017 14:44
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 33
Offline)
Comments1
This could easily be a song. Well done.
Thank you!
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