The Mind Eating Snake

At the head of a storm,
the eyes are lightening bright.
We can see the life in them.
The brows rise in great arcs
confirming, "pell mell I'm going to hell,"
diving head first into sales or war.

On the heavy forehead are
the marks of a history,
the skin's memory
of stories that
no one will decifer;
around the mouth, a million
frowns and sayings of "yes."

After the neck,
filled with tubes of life,
the great shoulders emerge.
Lack of arms surprises us,
fused apparently into the sides.
Below the chest the body
segments and, unfeatured,
terminates in a pointed cone
like the anus of a worm.