It is complicated.
Impossible to discern
Why she needs
To do what she does,
When she does it
Over and over
If not in the same place,
Then in the same
Frame of mind,
A mounting panic
Over weeks of worry,
Until the seeds are
Planted in the soil
She tilled,
Soil too toxic
For anything to grow in,
And like the cotton farmers
Of the old South,
She moves on
To virgin land,
To start again,
Tilling soil
Ripe for planning,
Until that soil turns foul
And she must
Move on again,
Leaving behind
A trail of owe,
Filled with unfulfilled
Opportunities,
And once promising
love
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