The Curse of the Snake

The Curse of the Snake

I walked where the river bends in quiet threat,

beneath trees that never speak, yet always watch,

where shadows stretch like secrets kept

by something older than our names.

They warned me once, they warned me twice,

of the curse that coils where silence hides,

a serpent born from broken trust,

its poison cold, its promise dust.

I met its gaze beneath dead trees,

it spoke without a single sound,

the curse was not the fang or strike,

but what it planted underground.

It didn’t strike at skin or bone,

it struck at trust, it struck at calm,

and left me holding doubt in both my hands,

wrapped tight as vines around my mind.

This is the curse I carry now,

not wound or scar upon my skin,

but restless thoughts that hiss at peace

and coil beneath my calm within.

They say a snake is just a beast,

but I know better, I have worn

its warning deep beneath my ribs,

where no one sees but all can feel.

I tried to walk away untouched,

but venom clings to those who see,

not the bite, but through the knowing

of what the snake has made of me.

I walk, I live, I speak, I laugh,

but deep inside the serpent stays,

its curse is not to end my life,

its curse is living with its ways.

So now I walk with quiet steps,

no longer sure of friend or foe,

for once you’ve met the curse it brings,

the world feels colder than before.

But still I walk, I do not stop,

because the snake may twist and wait,

but I am more than what it left,

I carry scars, but not its fate.