Moss grew over my eyes, and the roots went to my brain, down my throat, through
my knees, and out my toes. There will be no salvation. A perspective struggles
for air, engulfed by the earth's healing scab. Let the dirt pour from the
inside of my skull, as I am excavated from the burning wreckage. My torso opens
to reveal a mass grave, exhuming the skeletons buried in my chest. Why must
there be illumination upon this festering pile? Cursing that which wakes me. I
coil to make my nest, to hide my scales from the light. I have not yet had my
time in the sun. There will be no salvation, for I am the serpent doomed to
crawl on my stomach. Slithering beneath your feet and between your toes.
Learning your minds, mimicking your frivolity. But all jubilation is mine in

the end. Basilisk fangs glistening in the sun's final rays, to alleviate a
radial hatred, ancient and hypnotic. Staining your lives and all the earth with
a bitterness, subtle and unbearable, yet tangible at the very base of your
mind. A worm becomes a king. Arising to crush the crown of God. Eternally
dispelling my misery to permeate through every molecule of life that pulses
over this planet. The sun burns blinding red before eternally ceasing its
graceful shine. In a serpent's mouth the earth shall be swallowed whole. And we
will ask ourselves before we finally die: How miserable is the light that
shines into my eyes?