today's feminine is indeed a rose, but not a blossoming one of exquisite beauty. she cries her petals into her womb, where all her pain awaits release. her black mascara stains her face, but she has no desire to wash it clean: take her stained or leave her, you man, proud and taking.
today's woman ventures out alone, listening, talking, craving the fangs of the rattlesnake, which she - in desperation - hopes will make her connect, and feel again, that which she has lost, had taken from her without consent, which she gave over to the shift that pushed in an unbalanced rift.
today's feminine can bring him inside to unlock what lies in wait to birth a new, longing consciousness. she washes the newborn child with the falling of tears, wipes it clean with her hair, while the Earth and her spirits nurse it full, plump and radiant under the rising sunbeams, where it will grow, and dance later