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If Adam took the first bite

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Like a snake you hissed
lucid lies
and ill ideas,
to the poor head of Adam
in the lustrous garden of Eden.
You coveted something, someone
that wasn’t yours,
even though you had one of your own.
As you started to get confrontational,
a dark lurking warrior fighting over territory you had no right to have,
I heeded the threat and lowly whispered it to poor Adam’s sweet head.
Then you slinked yourself—
a stark black schism between Adam and Eve—
and just as you had planned it,
you got him to deceive.
Deceive himself and taste the richness of bittersweet fruit,
Deceive his friends, ignore his roots,
Deceive himself by turning to you;
proudly sneering at your success.
But now,
as I sit across the room from you each day,
with your malevolent stories from getting your scales slashed,
I laugh.
I laugh and laugh, how the sly snake that slithered
dried out in the blistering sun,
and Adam and Eve made it back,
to where they had begun.
I laugh.
I laugh an uproarious laugh at how the one who tried so desperately
failed even more so,
and now has nothing,
and has been left all alone.
So thank you, for meddling in business
that was not yours to be had,
just remember:
The snake never gets the last laugh.





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