His Work Of Art.

As I stand in front the mirror
I admire the woman looking at me
She is the replica of her ancestors
Thick hair, ripe cherry lips, a full nose
Her skin, the richness, purity and colour
It shouts... You are Mother Earth

Her eyes command me to explore every detail
The perfect artist has created
Even Da Vinci could not perfect this..
Do I see what she sees, my eyes aren't sure
I question her, I question this work of art.


Was this living work of art
Beautiful when...
It was stripped of it's dignity
When it parched in the Midday sun
When it felt the lashes of hatred
When they raped this living art

I close my eyes and wrinkle my face in frustration
My heart aches, my soul weeps
What kind of art is this..
My mind throws me a million questions per minute
I have no answers

Be strong she says
Look carefully, look around you
See his museum of perfection
In every shade of the paint he's brushed your empty canvas with
Chocolate, Caramel, Chestnut, Almond, and Blue Black
The woman in the mirror...
Finally she smiles at me

Don't be afraid, never ashame of the colour
The artist has used on you
It is his vision of you Child
You are beautifully and wonderfully made in his image
You are his work of art.

by Candacy Morian

Comments (1)

A wonderful poem that explores the beauty from within. Like the image of the 'living work of art'. A visual and original write Candacy. kind regards, Justine