The serpent has a human face. Wrought with wrath or fretted with fear.
Glaring with envy or arched with pride. The artist knows the subtle change.
Pouts it in paint or inscribes on stone. Not like them, the woman and man. Their
faces are fresh, their bodies are warm. They know a good thing when they see
it. Their flesh is gorgeous and their posture upright. The fruit does their
heads in. Gorgeous uprightness becomes apparent. Apparent requires figgy
apparel. Death is a word in the dictionary. Timelessness turns into September.
Their faces become like the face of the serpent.
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