Scilla found her head… — a poem

Scilla found her head over the dress,
not the original — battered, discarded —
one eye juttering… too much stress.

Plop onto her mannequin neck bone,
skin color doesn’t match, you see.
Can’t have it all as a dollyhead clone.

Joan of Arc sleeves, celebate knot
at the waist — calls for alteration.
Wonder… is chastity something that’s caught?

Scilla found her head and her call.
Scilla found purpose in a monastic robe.
Scilla found herself surprising them all.

 

* * *

 

The Sunday Muse.

Actual image for The Sunday Muse #170:

 

 

20 thoughts on “Scilla found her head… — a poem

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