The Serpent And The Wings Of Night Now

The serpent does not remember the garden. It remembers only the dark—the root-choked soil, the cool press of earth against its belly, and the long, silent arithmetic of hunger. Its kingdom is the underfoot, the crepuscular realm where things rot and are remade. Its tongue tastes the ghosts of stars.

They do not answer. They simply move. The serpent climbs the air as if it were a branch; the wings dive as if the abyss were a nest. Together, they become something the old myths forgot to name: not tempter, not savior, but the hyphen between earth and ether. the serpent and the wings of night

“You would take me to the dark of the moon?” asks the serpent. The serpent does not remember the garden

They meet at the hinge of dusk, that narrow door between what crawls and what soars. Its tongue tastes the ghosts of stars