Word

This old word,

What to do with it,

They sigh.

No word

Becomes old,

Loses essence,

Becomes a cliche.

A word

Is an immortal snake,

Thousands of years old.

It slithers

Over time,

All the time.

Sometimes 

It raises its hood

Over the chest 

Of a sleeping child.

Sometimes

It curls itself

Like dry grass

Amidst dry grass.

So do great poets

And bad poets

Appear in this world.

Don’t get your tailor 

To stitch a new skin 

For the snake.

It’ll shed its skin itself,

And grow a new skin itself too.

Antidote

For its venom

Is nothing but

Another drop 

Of its venom.