WRITING: Metaphor

The serpent shed its skin and so we too.  Gliding on the soft green tender grasses silently and swift.  It is the quick way to the quest, the guess of what is real, sideways dodging that which dry and crisp would whisper names.  Once worn and weary scales smooth out, no longer treading but rolling like glass marbles on a mirror lake, it leaves itself behind in images.  Paper, glass, and scissors swims away.