Prima Materia

The snake when it sheds its skin surely must pause,
writhe at the discomfort of leaving part of itself behind,
wonder at the scars and marks of time,
consider for a moment its perverted trail,
the bending, winding path of ending
the bending, winding path of becoming

Am I the ouroboros?

The alpha and omega?

Or am I nothing at all?
Soon to be your ashes,
the dust and duff of the forest,
the peat of your mythology
and the lies you tell yourself.

Photo & poetry ©2016, Jen Payne

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