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.