A Torn Page

A hundred pounds bite.
It was a matter of faith
with copperhead.

A maddening silence
dodging the window,
where the moon sits.

The peril will always stay
reneging, of the big space
for next victim.

Quaint feeling persists.
Of shearing the clouds
to knit a bright Venus.

The eventual escape.
To be the name
on a bloodied sword.