Word
Word
This old word,
What to do with it,
They sigh.
No word
Becomes old,
Loses essence,
Becomes a cliche.
A word
Is an immortal snake,
Thousands of years old.
It slithers
Over time,
All the time.
Sometimes
It raises its hood
Over the chest
Of a sleeping child.
Sometimes
It curls itself
Like dry grass
Amidst dry grass.
So do great poets
And bad poets
Appear in this world.
Don’t get your tailor
To stitch a new skin
For the snake.
It’ll shed its skin itself,
And grow a new skin itself too.
Antidote
For its venom
Is nothing but
Another drop
Of its venom.