The unwavering activity went on
Rushing against time
Venom squirting all over an
An intricate mesh around it,
Sharp, diabolic needles
Spearheading a snake into place,
Clicking instructions to each other
In metallic voices.

But the final product,
The sweater I presented to you
Was second grade
Lacking texture and character-
For the venom had dried and
Flaked off, then,
And the serpent had slithered away
Into the omnipresence of Shiva’s headgear
Where it belonged-
Leaving its harmless, papery mould behind
Like the wings of a dead butterfly.