More Venomous Than the Serpent

O Inland Taipan, crowned in sand,

With venom held in slender hand,

Thou art no villain of the tale—

But Man, ah Man! The true betrayal.

Thy bite, though lethal, knows its course,

It strikes not out of spite or force.

No pride in poison, no deceit—

Just nature’s rhythm, clean and neat.

But Man? The creature forged from clay,

With lips that mold the world’s decay.

A being blessed with voice and mind—

Yet curses trail the words he’s signed.

He speaks not peace, but sharpened shame,

He plays not love, but ego’s game.

His tongue a spear, his laugh a lash,

His compliments—disguised with trash.

The serpent bites, then slips away,

Its war is brief, it makes no play.

But Man will smile, and stab you twice—

Once with words, once with advice.

He calls his brother fool and fiend,

Mocks faces, hearts, and clothes uncleaned.

No kindness in his daily bread—

His greetings better left unsaid.

He whispers sweet, but plots in black,

He walks ahead, then turns his back.

No venom kills as slow, as sure,

As words that dig beneath the pure.

What makes a man more cursed than snake?

The lies he swears, the hearts he breaks.

He smiles, then talks behind your name—

He builds his joy from others' shame.

He knows not silence, peace, or grace—

Just noise to fill the empty space.

His words, like wildfire, scorched and wide,

Burn forests where the truths once lied.

And still he struts, this crowned buffoon,

Beneath the cold and callous moon.

He wears his hate in fragrant spray—

Perfumes his poison to display.

O Taipan, you have earned your dread,

But Man? He kills with what he said.

You strike once, and let silence fall—

But Man keeps hissing through the hall.

He mocks the poor, forgets the kind,

He cheers the cruel, and leaves the blind.

He counts his coins, not words or sins—

For him, the bitter always wins.

Yet once he knew the art of light—

To hold a hand, to speak what's right.

To lift the weak, to sing with pride,

To offer truth and not deride.

What happened to the voice of balm,

That healed like music, pure and calm?

What happened to the words that prayed,

That wept with those whose joys decayed?

O Man, you once were king of care,

Now tyrant with a vacant stare.

Your heart—a vault of rust and dust,

Your promises—a trail of trust.

You used to know that kindest speech

Could touch the heights that gold can’t reach.

But now your words are blades of pride,

You wound, then laugh, then run and hide.

Your strength once lay in gentle hands,

In eyes that wept when war took lands.

In whispers that could mend a soul—

Not burn it black to reach your goal.

Where is the man who spoke with grace,

Who bore a calm and honest face?

Who taught his child the worth of peace,

Who knelt to help the fallen beast?

His strength was not in sword or gun,

But how he shared his slice of sun.

His power—love; his weapon—prayer,

His throne—within the heart’s repair.

But now he mocks, and mocks with flair,

He paints his hate in public square.

He types it, posts it, calls it free,

As if venom is liberty.

Each platform now a Taipan’s den—

Yet snakes are kinder beasts than men.

They warn before they strike or hiss—

But humans curse, then claim a kiss.

Their satire cuts without a cause,

Their laughter lacks both truth and laws.

They speak of peace while breeding war—

And worship wounds they once abhorred.

O Man! You beast of crooked grace,

With silver tongue and leaden face.

Why poison love with jealous glee?

Why chain your soul and call it free?

Forget not that your words remain,

Like ghosts that linger after pain.

A voice may shape a world or break—

Be sun to bloom, or storm to quake.

Be not the Taipan clothed in skin,

Whose bite is made of bitter grin.

Be not the hissing, hollow jest,

That laughs too loud to mask unrest.

Instead, remember what is good—

To speak as if your soul has stood

Before the mirror of the skies,

And wept for all its selfish lies.

Speak like the breeze that cools the flame,

Speak not to wound, not to defame.

Let every word be branch, not sword—

A bridge, not fire, in your accord.

Let man return to gentler art,

To hold with tongue what lifts the heart.

To plant in soil of common breath,

A garden that defies all death.

For life is short, and wounds are deep,

And words once said, the soul must keep.

Be not the one whose voice decays—

Be one whose silence builds the praise.

And if you must compare a beast,

Compare the one who poisons least.

For though the snake may bite and flee,

The man can curse eternally.

O Inland Taipan, rest in pride—

For you are pure, while Man has lied.

Your venom sleeps inside a fang—

But his? It lingers where words hang.