@d-pendThe seed seems serpentine,
for it scurries through the blades
of fate, o'er-awning infamies
that hurl it glints and shades.
Then I, in hot pursuit,
madly dash and des'prate fall
at the footstalk of its trail,
on the edge of its bright call.
I seek the silent, singing seed
always beyond my grasp.
Advance and it recedes,
I retreat—
then strikes the asp.
written Nov. 15, 2019
