Have you tasted the silk
in the pit of snakes?
Exit was not in my fate.

Winter was kissing my toes
and spring was blooming down
in my estranged poems.

You don’t feel like to wake up
for ingrained disbelief.
The fangs were not ready to strike.

There was diginity in death
of magnolia. Snow had failed to
appear at night.

In the aftermath of the rains,
the moon climbed up the hill
to bid farewell to virgins.