Snake Head

The clock argued with silence in the kitchen,  

its hands spinning indifferently through moments.  

The stove hummed an ancient tune, soft, steady,  

as the chef danced with knives and firelight.  

The snake's head lay still on the counter,  

its body discarded like yesterday's news.  

But death, stubborn and unfinished, clung tight,  

its teeth remembering the pulse of the hunt.  

About 20 minutes later, his hands  

lifted the severed head, unthinking, abrupt.  

The venom struck like lightning under his skin,  

faster than breath could warn his lungs to fight.  

The scream broke the room into jagged halves,  

chairs screeched backward, footsteps ran to listen.  

His body folded, crumpled on linoleum,  

each gasp tighter, smaller, desperate for air.  

Death arrived quicker than anyone expected,  

its grip more sure than any warning shouted.  

The head, still defiant, remembered something raw,  

as time stitched tragedy into the kitchen walls.