there is a snake i maintain
a correspondence with.
i want to know what it wants. i'm confident
this is for survival.
once a week, the snake and i meet
inner-sufferings. it swallows the mistakes
of survival: asking for help,
admitting there is no self-imposed
light. i just can't wait until i keep dying
until i return to the original form,
the embodiment of light-
a condition of beyond and all:
of it, what is born and made from such-
that which the people see past
voyeurisms into of each other-
the obvious knowings
frenetic unveiling of discoveries.
it is compost.
compost has been waiting,
being a miracle, personally expanding
free will, but only
denting into a surface, feathers touching
softly at most, light and lively.
but i do not like that. i'm
unable to be touched by such frivolities.
all bets are off. i am the devil.
it is not a big deal.
i am the devil
returning to the original embodiment of light.