Coiled thickly on the ground,

You are nothing more than

A rippling pattern of moods;

Yellow and black, then a flash

Of your silvery tongue, which

Lashes and hisses and thrashes,

Hurls insults until it succumbs

To the bitter harshness of its own bite,

Making you too drowsy, too weak,

To instigate another fight.

.

.

.

Vertigo overtakes you,

And you plunge headfirst into a pit,

With all the other serpents

That I have thrown away from my garden;

Writhing, twisting, entwining,

Fangs still bared, your coils ensnared,

All of you, forgotten.