I loathe the snake that never slipped to the pit,
That danced to the charmer’s venomous spit.
Curled in warmth, where rot runs deep,
Drunk on lies, and proud in sleep.

I pity the wretch who dared descend,
But turned from the moon that does not mend.
So close to molt, to split the skin,
Yet chose the dark — and died within.

But I have fallen, and I have drowned,
Where bones speak truth beneath the ground.
The moonlit blade cut through my soul,
A gift of fire that burned me whole.

I shed my skin on stone that weeps,
Still wear the hiss that never sleeps.
I stalk a ghost with voiceless breath,
Drawn to the songless womb of death.

- Niko Randeni