Gypsy Moth

This peppermint and nettle tea,

makes mischief with my memory.

Two nights spent in an autumn wood,

with stirrings that portend no good.

 

The gypsy girl is circling me,

between the ash and hornbeam tree.

Two nights she studies, prods and sniffs,

disarming warnings and what-ifs.

 

I see her secret plan unfold,

behind her eyes and stories told.

I’m meant to be the docile prey,

but I smelt her ten miles away.

 

I play along with her charade,

it’s charming and she’s trying hard.

A voice petitions from my gut,

to let her go before I’m cut.

 

The stupid man won’t listen though,

he burns up in the after glow.

Beware the tinker’s daughter son,

she leaves marks that can’t be undone.

 

The pauper is too slow to see,

snow-blinded by his poverty,

beguiled by what has been deprived,

he flies through fire to feel alive.

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