The Serpent’s Riddle
By: Raymundo Adrian Velez
Some stories begin like fairy tales two hearts building something that felt permanent.
Then something without legs found a way to move between them.
Armor can protect the body, but it can’t always guard the blind spots.
Yet the serpent knew how to shed skin and slip between old doors it never fully closed.
Daylight belonged to one world, where loyalty was spoken loudly.
In the shadows, another version of truth quietly survived.
Arm in arm with the shell, it played devoted while its past still whispered its name.
Loyalty bent when convenience called.
Every strike came only after the supply ran dry.
Double lives don’t collapse from chaos, they unravel from exposure.
If you listen closely, you’ll hear the grass move before you see the strike.
Nothing is more dangerous than a creature that feeds in two directions.
Now here’s the riddle:
What sheds skin but never guilt?
What walks beside you yet moves behind you?
Guard your circle.
Read the signs.