21:8–9

What if it was never

the serpent we feared —

but the shedding?

What if it was not the bite,

but the gaze

we could not hold?

Not the lie,

but the darkness

behind the knowing?

In the desert,

we lifted the bronze one

not to punish—

but to heal.

Still,

we looked away.

What burns

is not always fire.

What coils

is not always a threat.

Some venom clarifies.

Some silence breaks open

words concealed.

And still she waits —

as old as soil,

silver-eyed in silence —

to witness

the ritual of our

becoming,

as we shed,

bare, moving

towards

who we are,

beyond

our

naming.