Max Fomitchev-Zamilov, Poetry

Максим Фомичёв-Замилов, поэзия

My stomach is a web of snakes.
They squirm and move about
And drag my thoughts through their scales.

I sense the hissing!

Their tongues lash out at my flesh,
They taste my skin and
Tightly wrap themselves around my bones.
My skeleton is held together by their muscles.

I reek of poison!

Perhaps enlightenment is like a poison,
To be administered in drops.
Too much of it and one can’t bare any longer
To see the naked truth.

The truth is not a virgin stripped of cloth,
The truth is an old hag,
It’s dirty, smelly, wrinkled and malformed.

Too few can stand the sight of it for long.
Too few can keep their eyes and minds open
While staring at its horrific imperfection.

Alas, the truth is not a naked virgin!
A teller of the truth smells bitter.
He easily can kill,
And therefore should be avoided.

Too few are brave to kiss the web of snakes.
Too few are strong to bare the sight.
Too few…

So I keep hissing in seclusion.
My blood is saturated with delusion.

I wait to be discovered
I lay a trap.
I am a blessing and a curse,
But you decide what I shall do to you.

The time will tell what’s more important:
The peaceful ignorance
Or the unsettling travesty of knowledge?

The Serpent we consider evil
Because he offered way too much
For Eve to carry.

Too much for her and Adam.
So God expelled them both
And set a curse upon the Serpent.

All women scream while giving birth.
All snakes are meant to slither.
Such is the truth.

Don’t be a stranger!
Come closer, so I can kiss you on the lips
And sink my fangs into your flesh.
All for a drop of poison.

Leave a Reply