
It isn’t for me,
It’s become plain to see.
Never was, never will be—
This world, from land to sea.
So, hear this, my fever plea,
Pitched out—flying free—
Even if we don’t agree,
I’m gone—gone—see?
I’m no rooted tree.
It’s plain to see,
It isn’t for me.
© 2026 Tristan Robert Lange. All rights reserved.
Tittu


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