The dry snake slithers slowly,
skales caressing my skin
the tender weight of its body moves slowly closer
closer to my groin
with a forked-tongue tickling.
I feel the cold rush in my veins,
with every heartbeat anticipating the venom
bringing death of hypodermic needles.
The body of the serpent’s soft as silk
strangely warm — my lovers hand —
moving for the morning glory
blooming as I’m kissed awake,
released to firework — apple-cheeked
an enigma of relieved.
Izy wants us to turn our worst nightmare into farce at toads. I could imagine a nightmare, but I do not think it ended in a farce, sorry for being deviate a bit from the prompt.