She

Temple of beauty and gentleness.

The bearer of all fruit.

The Juliet and Stella to every Romeo and Astrophil.

A server of her purpose when her ovaries are ready like red rubies, and ripe grapes.

Tulips of life she is.

The obligation to life, and to live.

Nurturer of all nature.

Provider of nutrients and sanity.

She is the calm and love in every breathing, blood-filled beast.

Her womb is the patient keeper of the unfinished.

Infinitely created to create.

Her bones will decay, interfered by age.

Her skin dying day by day.

Fading, and wrinkling like packed, pounds of prunes.

That, drooping like an unbearable load in an old, tired sack.

The hex born of Eve’s cunning and alluring ways.

She, something so, must end.

Jinxed, she must turn back to dust.

Photo courtesies of Google Images