Gripping the ground.
Searching all around.
The slits, in its eyes,
As thin as a crescent moon.
Not searching for;
The altering boon.
Look! It's found prey,
Soon will it raze.
But the prey has evaded it,
And may it be the serpent's bane.
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Poet's Notes about The Poem
Comments about this poem (Slithering along by Elyse Winne )
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If You Forget Me
Still I Rise
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