Poetry

A hundred pounds bite. 
It was a matter of faith 
with copperhead. 
 
A maddening silence 
dodging the window, 
where the moon sits. 
 
The peril will always stay 
reneging, of the big space 
for next victim. 
 
Quaint feeling persists. 
Of shearing the clouds 
to knit a bright Venus. 
 
The eventual escape. 
To be the name 
on a bloodied sword.