metamorphic in waiting

there are cries in dis­tant lies,
robed with green and sparkling red,
they may lie in my bed,
soon to love and ca­ress and care so much care few even dare,
mis­tress of the crim­i­nal poets,
seek­er of more splen­did ores,
doth i pre­sume for so long,
i’d shiv­er in the bless­ings gone,
so soon again i cher­ish for a day,
and hugs will also go astray,
in bed and on the sofa i lay,
qui­et in the as­tral bay,
she yearned from far and wide,
when her hair lash­es armies stride,
and in be­tween a blos­som of her,
lies the sa­cred po­ets affair,
so pure a vast geyser secretes,
of a lava warm and unheralded,
to any oth­er but purest loves bestowed.

i cry so silent­ly to come and wake,
in spi­rals of our hugs soon take,
more of this time such time pre­cious when we rake,
for the gems dug no race may see this bond to break.

there is a tox­in hid­den in this chest,
this muse,
dwin­dles any vi­o­lent ruse,
of a life com­pared to a gutter,
di­a­monds and crys­tals so collects,
my vi­o­lent love then sets,
so too once may be a char­ac­ter of cu­rios­i­ty by society,
but rec­og­nized deep­est chasms of wis­dom and sobriety.

when they are gone i tell the tale,
of which most would be­come their faces pale,
takes a with­ered pas­sion of a poet to its limits,
hauls me in arms like fire limbs,
or­dained with met­al rivets.

—tris­ti­tia languorem

Flom­mist Tris­ti­tia Lan­guorem eats tragedy. They have many names but it doesn’t change much the whole premise of the ideals. Antwerp, Bel­gium is where home is. It’s time for a fresh start. Copy­right © 2026 Tris­ti­tia Lan­guorem. Pic­tured: C.R.W. Nevin­son, Le Vieux Port (ro­tat­ed), 1913, swiped from.

MOR D’ARTÍCULOS  MOR FLOMM !

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