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Holy is he
Her skin is the color of the earth
She works
Long and hard to preserve her future
Her hands calloused and hard
Oh so gentle and pliant
They yeild fruit
With nothing to dig with save these hands
And the sweat from her brow
As nourishment
This is her existence
A supple balck hue of beauty
Secular envy challenges her
Finding her guilty for damaged
Feilds, one of exotic black roses
Grows heedlessly towards phosphoric light
Turning it's back to her slicing her love
On it's thorns
She loves them most, wild and untamed
She lets them hurt her most
Keeping a steady grasp on their stems
Her skin breaks in time with her heart
The other field yeilding feeble rosemarys
Drenched in tears
And yet it survives
Guided by her hand she
Longs for day when they will
Stand tall in full bloom
This is her existance
She longs for more but
Knows not what it is
Her spilt blood runs strong
Through the roots of both crops
This is her existence
I call her love
I call her mother
She
Is
My
Existence
That's beautifully written. I love how you put all the detail into this one. Thank you for commenting on my stuff as well :)