King Cobra

King Cobra

No longer is my poetry an end
as if it really ever was before.
It only is a means, how I attract,
that she allows my words to enter in.
No longer words are all she wants inside.
Persuasion to a wider audience.
I keep them bound in volumes in my head.
The pen I hold, archaic instrument.
All spiral bound, the notebooks where I write.
The spiral coil’d just like a jungle snake.
King Cobra, hooded, standing six feet tall.
Come eye-to-eye with darting tongue as well.
Last instance right before she strikes your face.
She knows to puncture closest to your cheek,
the softest place. Your skull, her fangs may break.