#cento #found #poetry
She could not forget the painted woman with her curved tail; the green scales discoloured by rust.
Enthralled by the question of innocence and guilt, she is not sure she can face it. The humiliation.
The press of other bodies against hers
In the city crowds, the noise and frenetic movement overwhelmed her.
In the privacy of their own spaces
they talked of the future, the things they'd do and achieve.
She presses her hand to her abdomen,
In the dark, every sense is heightened
The splitting of her flesh.
A witch hunt ā all he had seen was his own ego reflected back at him. She had given him power over her.
Now, she takes it back and passes it on in the strands of her DNA. Her empowerment is complete.
There is a beauty to it all. Every soul deserves a proper resting place. A marker. The perfect fit of her, a mollusc in its shell.
Ā©š¦VixenOfVerse, 2026
**Bold Italics are my words. The rest of the poem was 'found' from random sentences from The Sirens by Emilia Hart.**
VIXEN of VERSE 