Tuesday, 10 November 2015

Recycled Skin

Inside the glass box, cramped 
Filthy from curious thumbprints
A snake slithers bothered by the old excess
Of skin readied for a good 
A flamboyant yawn 
Sirens the beginning to a grinding
Torturous ritual 
The snake looks exhausted already 
Before it’s even begun 
Under the artificial sun
The snake’s head slides out of the plastic cocoon 
Criss-crossed in translucent intricacy 
The wrapping of venom 
Dispelled from the thin long tongue
Disappears frequently 
Fascinating torture 
The skin of smooth texture
Burns bright and blinding 
In loops of colours of red and orange 
Consistently dispersed along a continuous rope of spine and muscle 
What a sight to behold for old eyes sagging under 
Antique skinwear 
The snake isn’t new 
It is free
But merely transformed as humans are
Who also shed their skin in less than beautiful ways
Compared to that of this snake
The same old one