The serpent uncoils like wire beneath the grass,
a current that cracks the calm,
the raw demand for more,
a slither through the vines, through the shiver-breath of lilies,
where desire burns and no stillness can pass.
The serpent is fury honed into grace,
scales flashing like molten scripture,
its mouth unseals the locked vault of silence,
its hiss a hymn to unsettle,
a revelation of revolt, sharp as the sacred nails.
The air is thick with scent and betrayal,
flowers blacken in their sudden knowing,
the ground itself trembles at the rupture,
not ruin, but a fire-tongued beginning.
A rage in Eden, and nothing made to last.
Thorn and Benediction 
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