Venom of the Void

Beneath the sun-scorched scar of sand,

Where silence slithers across the land,

There moves a breathless, coiled command—

The Inland Taipan, death unmanned.

Born not for battle, yet cloaked in dread,

It treads where other beasts have fled.

Not loud, not proud, no herald cry—

Just silence deep as desert sky.

Its tongue, a flicker of poisoned lore,

Speaks not of mercy, myths, or more.

It dances through the dust and shade,

A ghost in lightless masquerade.

No lion’s roar, no eagle’s shriek,

No thunderous step or talon’s beak.

Yet in its veins, a death refined—

A venom forged to halt all time.

Fiercer than war, more silent than sin,

It kills not out of want, but kin.

No hunger drives its need to sting,

Just nature’s cruel and careful ring.

With fangs like whispers dipped in doom,

It seals its prey in silent tomb.

A single strike—no room for two—

The world then fades in shades of blue.

Lizards, rodents, birds take flight,

When its amber eyes ignite the night.

But oh, the foolish and the bold,

Forget that death wears brown and cold.

It has no friends, but not alone—

The hawk above, the scorpion’s throne.

Yet none dare toy the Taipan’s wrath,

For it has paved its private path.

The desert knows this slithering priest,

Whose gospel is a lethal feast.

Each scale a psalm, each hiss a verse,

Of nature’s blessing wrapped in curse.

It plays with wind, with shadow games,

With half-formed truths and twisted names.

The sun forgets, the moon betrays,

And Time itself dares not to gaze.

A lesson carved in fang and skin:

That danger lies not loud, but thin.

The deadliest beast may wear no crown,

Yet rule entire worlds in brown.

What is a king without a roar,

When death may crawl through crevice floor?

What use is armor, sword, or flame,

When silence strikes without a name?

Inland, deep where echoes cease,

The Taipan moves with serpent peace.

Its poison is not merely bite—

It’s truth that strips the soul of light.

O human soul, you walk so proud,

With eyes above and dreams unbowed.

But know this path of spine and sand

Bows not to mind nor mortal hand.

For even truth, when undistilled,

Becomes a venom, cold and filled.

And in our chase for all we crave,

We mimic serpents as we wave.

What is the Inland Taipan, then?

A monster shaped to humble men?

A mirror scaled in gold and grime,

That shows what slumbers past our time?

Its strike is swift, but not unearned,

Each soul it touches must have learned—

That beauty too may wear disguise,

And death may bloom in quiet eyes.

A beast, a symbol, threat and muse—

It asks the world, “Which truth will you choose?”

The poison you give or that you take,

The lies you soothe or those you break?

We laugh, we build, we dream, we dare—

But deep within, the venom’s there.

Not all who bite have tails or scales,

But all may poison with their tales.

So watch your step, your speech, your song—

The Inland Taipan slithers long.

Not just in deserts, but in men—

It lives in stories told again.

Let this be more than fang or fright,

Let horror bloom to moral light.

That danger, clothed in silence thin,

Awaits not outside—but within.