Feral right

At the wide-open mouth of the cave,

the feral woman sits in her clotted, brownish blood,

pensively painting the walls with the tincture of her ragged soul.

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More blood rises warmly, and she splashes it with delighted rage.

Pounding the air, her scent spirals,

uncluttering the forest,

purifying,

taking up her exuberant, caustic space.