“Hey there, how is it with your soul?”
They used to ask— no longer care to know.
To process this shit it would take a bowl;
In the cloud of smoke I might lose where to go,
Which might as well be their whole goal,
Still better positioned to think and show,
That whoever THEY are, this is how I roll.
POET’S NOTE:
Part of the Truth, Applied collection.
© 2026 Tristan Robert Lange. All rights reserved.
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