From a far fetched view,
The eye perfects the red rose.
From its petals down to its thorns and vine.
Never seen beauty quite like it.
As she approached the rose,
The embellished perfections slowly faded away.
She moved close enough to see the tiny dew drops glisten,
In the day.
The rose began to grow in the palms of her hands.
She long studied its life and form.
Until she could see the puny perfume glands that made its good scent.
She ran her fingers alongside the petals.
Down to the vine.
Her prickled thumb on thorns she forgot were there.
She was all too familiar with the rose's decieving looks.
Her nurturer was, too, stunning.
Melanin faultless and even toned.
Nicely groomed 25/8,
Dressed in all gold.
The two locked hands,
and the clasp made her hand prickle with love, hate, and pain.
The woman toyed with this 4th umbilical cord.
When things were all good, it was great;
and when it was bad,
it was a sharp pointed emergence from the heart to her pricked hands.
The familiarisation of the rose.
The beauty and ugliness of it.
The perfections and imperfections of the woman she seriously admired.
From the time she was cut out her womb,
Now, that's love. hate.