12The opposite of innocence; guilt. A shifting, sinuously-weaving serpent, hypnotic and seductive, alluring and repulsing in one.
Hiding, a master of the masquerade, only to strike and vanish in an instant.
So many forms of guilt, a nest of writhing, coiling serpents, each one a deadly temptation...Why are we lauded for driving out the birds and letting the vipers in?
Some call the first strike of guilt 'growing up', being exposed to the harsh realities of life. This one flickers and dances amid society balls and intimate cotillions; or lingers, coils black as sin in the dark alleyways for unsuspecting victims that fall prey to its insidious venom. "You're a big boy/girl now," is the cry of those already poisoned.
A flash of hypnotic, scaled skin, a silver tongue flickering and tasting the air, its voice more deadly than its poison, a silver-tongued charmer, persuasive and powerful, abusive and abuser, never traced and rarely seen. Bonds of friendship weaken under an argent assault, friends turn enemies; enemies friends in a shifting, changing arena where the silvertongue snake reigns supreme, eyes all aglitter and heart as winter as friends desert and rumours spread.
A seductive shimmer of wine-red scales, a predatory smile and an inviting tongue that flickers and rolls in the air. Ah…depravity. A sweet little snake, one that strikes when it's least expected, its toxins the phantom fire of lust and the caprice of corruption. Its hiss is the sound of bubbling courtesan's laughter, low and rich, and its eyes glitter with joyful malice as it stares you down and takes your mate away to the dark places where only need exists, and you are alone.
A glitter of sultry golden skin, this tiny serpent twines about the hearts and minds of millions. Its hiss is the sweet sound of falling coins, its eyes great jewels, its voice the hint of covetousness that will grow and grow and consume all in its avaricious gaze. Its natural breeding-grounds are corporate boardrooms and the decadent parties and cotillions of the wealthy and privileged, each one a nest of vipers unleashed upon an unsuspecting world, each delighting in the abundance of material things. The duke of development, this tiny serpent haunts and hunts the leaders of the land, revelling in their aura. Aurum potestas est. Gold Is Power.
Caparisoned corruption, urbanely endemic, lawyers and solicitors who slip and slide and slither amid the loopholes of the law, growing fat and fatter on the profits such sly sleuthing brings, while others are stripped bare in their shifting wake and left to fend for themselves. The prince of injured innocence and sly cunning, this one slithers away without trace, as though it had never passed.
The last is ephemeral, the king of guilt, of whispered words and half-formed plots that on his body writhe and shiver. His is the lilting, sibilant tone of wheedling whispers and rippling rapture. His is the voice that cries 'Go on…do it…' He delights in plots and plans, in schemes and subversion, his are the thoughts of betrayal and murder. His is the tiny little voice that whispers in your ear as you stand on the cliff edge, 'Go on…jump.'
His is the exultation that reverberates in your head as you gaze down on a blazing building, his is the delight as you speed towards the valley floor sparkling so very far below…he is the final release, his venom the poison of all society's ills that drives all thought away and leaves only raging unreason – we are helpless in that tide of malice birthed from the dark places of our society and the blackness ascendant in the hearts of the corrupt.
Perhaps I shall heed them, perhaps not. I have always wondered what it would be like to fly like the birds I set free so long ago in the golden summertime, now looking back from the bleak plateaux of an endless winter. If I jump, I will soar and dive, flying down from the snow-blasted heights, through the autumn hills and then down, down onto the golden summer valley, the river of Time glittering coyly below. I wonder what my last thoughts would be, what would happen after I am gone – a funeral or a party. Perhaps both – but which would contain more emotion? I would go with the party.
If I jump…or not…it all depends upon the timing, when the king of society catches me. I have heard the sussuration of his scales, the rustle of his sinuous coils as he slides through parties and cotillions for a long time now, I can see the glitter of the venom on his irresistible fangs, the malice and dead joy in his ephemeral eyes as he watches me, covetously. One day, I am sure, he will have me, and I will dive away into the blue air, free at last.
Freedom. The one bird you hold to the last, that no viper can truly take from you. The freedom to rise, the freedom to fall. The freedom to take consequences and to give consequences, that is a bird I should love to see fly from my broken and shattered body, the last of my flock. I would be gone, but I should have the satisfaction of bringing the kings, dukes, earls and viscounts down with me, and my epitaph would read:
Torn between two worlds,
They tore me apart,
Ripped loose my birds, shot my innocence down,
Down to the mud I lie, yet my spirit soars with my final bird to the stars.
I have nothing to give the world save the consequences of my death;
Ye who tormented, tortured and teased, bear the burden of thy guilt until it crushes you,
Tears you apart as you tore me;
No fear, we shall consign you to the mud,
As you did me.
As you
Did me.