SPARE THE SERPENTS
I know nothing not in the Socratic sense
Only the swell of a windowpane in mid November
The sleepy swallow hibernates
Rusted pipes hum in the twilight of nighttime
Approaching the river’s glassy reflections
Passed down from the ancestors of ancients
Wind chimes sing like church bells in the melancholy morning
Light snow drifts afoot along wisps of willows’ breath
Alive in the sky is a bird missing mate
Awaiting the favors of springtime
Fleeting into bliss and from bliss into passing flight
Young buds forge testaments against the will of suns’ light
Birth and death from lily to lotus
Becomes the realer divestment
Even the Christ child must die
Youthful servant who slays the serpent
You who would salivate over thimbles full of sour milk
You who have supped with the brazen and the burnt
You who will suffocate each night to lift the dying moon
You who laid claim to Messiahs in rapturous blight
You with your dour wail and whip of thunderous wind
Now miffed to be lost in this obscurity
The wilderness cannot be tamed
Nature will poach the illusion
If one thing must suffer
If one thing must perish
O monarch of knowledge
O slave to venom and wisdom
Let it be you
[I'm currently revising this, as it has a number of problems]