For all that lives and creaks and sneaks,
Over ashen plains and trough-less peaks,
Calls widening smiles with eyes that leak,
Across vast secrets that never speak.
If the the wind runs and bows do brake,
The sea gobbles all like the rarest of steaks,
And without fail, or stumble, or break,
Lies the evening of our forever-mistakes.
We care not for the lives touch,
For why for another would we care that much?
Snakes don’t walk or fly or clutch,
Just talk and hiss and more of things as such.
But bellies on plains and trough-less peaks,
And tongues that taste only the rarest of steaks,
Cannot care for lives they cannot touch,
Darkening snakes chase the dawn till there’s nothing much.