My sadness belongs to no one
to choke on and die
All mine— and I follow rules
dig twice as deep as the root ball
swallow you in segments
while I sleep
hating and adoring.
Rain clouds crash the bleak night.
Passion is only a construct
and time becomes apparent
upon awakening— while you labor
sucking out of a dead earth.
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Susan Isla Tepper is a twenty years published writer in all genres. Her current project is an Off-Broadway Play on the subject of art and life.
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