Snakes

The venom flows;
too easily you bite.
I bite back.
Quick little serpents we are.
Rattling and posturing, standing our ground.
Each one of us too proud to back down.
Hisses are all that's heard,
no friendly words.
After all angry, scared, reptiles don't speak they strike:
Hard and fast, leaving behind poison, infection, and soon death will set in.
There is no antidote.
Dying is the easy part.
The hissing has stopped.
The warning rattles have ceased.
The stinging is gone from the wounds.
The poison stills the breath, then the heart.
Relief.
Peace.
The mind is at last quiet.