Across the road,

He slides,

He twists,

Wicked dead white scales

Covering his writhing body.

 

Through the air,

He slices,

He soars,

His frosty fangs bared,

Threatening with his burning cold.

 

Around the trees,

He climbs,

He falls,

Dousing life,

Conquering even the strongest fortress of green

With his cruel freeze.

 

He is the White Snake.

 

 

 

As I look into the glass,

The clear, shining glass,

I wonder what lies beyond

The identical, parallel world.

 

I reach out to touch it without apprehension,

Expecting to feel the warm skin of my finger.

But as my hand makes the connection,

I find the surface to be cold and hard beneath my palm.

 

As I gaze at my perfect clone,

I wonder,

Is she looking back at me?

 

What lies beyond this unfaltering barrier?

Another world?

Another dimension?

Where lives live on beyond my detection?

 

But perhaps, it is only a reflection.