The man is the gardener, the guard den of her. He is not the big farm-her that harms her, using her to harvest from, instead of to cultivate to admire and learn from. Ploughing her like a hoe with his hoe, as he reaps from her flesh, acquiring nothing but internal poverty. Dust and husks. Never to have his spiritual hunger satisfied by tasting the suck-you-lento ripeness of a fully matured woman, his prime mate in her prime. He impregnates her with seed, then creates the containment for her to grow. The quality of the fruit she bares is a…
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