The Past Comes Back, and it’s bite still stings


You are the mouse that hides
in the wasted shavings of life
until the dusk finds you wide-eyed
eager to venture out into night.

Ready to strike, now like the snake
you are coiled, poised to bite
beneath the wood stacked high
where the farmer’s wife finds fright

when she sticks her hand in the pile
and is marred by your appetite,
your venomous need to strike
at the most unsuspected time.

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