Necropolis

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Necropolis

I am a free thinker—always will be—
I do not swoon but push forward in thought.
Yet, my thoughts—it turns out—are not that free,
And showing any brilliance gets one shot.

Walking streets a ghost—piss in the pot—
Transparent flesh reveals my rot.
Once whole, I have been devoured
By these zombies around me.

It used to be a tale—
Two cities…one.
Augustine to
Necropolis.

The gorging
Dead.

© 2025 Tristan Robert Lange. All rights reserved.

Tittu

Poet’s Note:
Written in my original form, Ghost Sonnet. A haunt of the Spenserian Sonnet, the form and words slowly disappear into a ghostly echo.