A coil of midnight ink,
it curves upon itself—
a story rewritten with every bite,
each swallow a stanza erased,
each rise a stanza reborn.
Its scales glint like borrowed lines,
snatched from yesterday’s pages,
then chewed into new syllables
that hiss in the pulse of now.
A narrative of endless dusk,
where beginnings blur with endings,
and the final word is always
the one it hasn’t yet spoken.
Here, the serpent is poet and poem:
devouring its own legend to taste
the freshness of unspun myths,
a living glyph of perpetual return.
.