POEM: Soulless Hour

In the soulless hour,

hearing my pulse,

a rubber mallet pounding a distant tin roof.

Comtemplating tribe signaling

&

social media as the place truth and conscientiousness go to die.

Personal facts, like the personal Jesus that’s been sung about.

But maybe there never has been such a thing as a fact.

That absurdity let’s me sleep like a baby.

 

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