Of the Rise and Fall of Serpents
Prince of the air, ground in the dirt
Roil, tide, in apprehension
Rise, bride of ill intention
Labor pains sour the sea
Foul humors darken the skies.
Boil, cloth of intervention
Staunch the dying with holy mention
Hollow words ring as you flee
Dew of your veins for morning thirst
Spoil, prayers of dying inflection
Betrayal, a faithless cur’s invention
Your innards fall around the tree
Your silver buys a feast for ravens
Toil, northmen, without direction
Valhalla, heaven, cuts the tension
A serpent wreathes the world with glee
The legend twisted like your tongues
Coil, prince of imperfection
Under heel, price of defection
You will never speak to me
And your lies will die behind your teeth.
About the Creator
Thomas Speer
I'm a God-fearing tumbleweed of a man, a gentle husband, loving foster parent, screwed up past and amazingly ordained future serving the Lord and expressing his revelation in my writing. Don't expect the dry and sanctimonious, though.
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