Irish With A Tan

Your Online Cup of Tea

The Sting of Romance


O that old scorpion Romance,

How oft doth trick me so.

When by life’s current I wait to swim

It begs with me to go.


See, I will not harm you,

What ill will come of this?

I simply wish to cross too,

Help me and I promise bliss.


Yet I had seen too many,

Swayed by these words of bait.

So I should not have stayed to argue

But when I spoke it was too late.


I know of one who sought you,

It even drove them mad.

Then once they finally had you

They died at their own hand


Another, one day found you,

Too small to give much care.

But rather than right there crush you,

They picked you up to stare.


“This time it will be different

I will avoid your little sting

My mind will surely guide me

My heart won’t let you win.”


Should I remind you of what happened?

“Go on” it said so softly

Right then I should have left it,

But my sense had fled far from me.


You took them on a journey,

They spent all that they had.

Their feet so terribly swollen.

And clothes so terribly ragged.


Then suddenly you promised,

“Your bliss is right ahead.”

Distracted, so you stuck them.

The poor fool now lays dead.


It smiled.


I know you were told these stories,

But really they are not true.

What happened to those people,

Has nothing to do with you.


I will only give you good things,

By nature tis a must.

Only help me cross this river,

Reward will follow trust.


Its speech became alluring,

I gave into defeat.

My mind no longer led me,

I was guided now by beats.


So going to the river,

I took it by the hand.

A few strokes till it is over,

Soon I will be on land.


Yet midway through it stung me,

But I would not let go,

It were as though it numbed me,

My will frozen, indisposed.


I bobbed for breath above the currents known as, anxiety and pain.

With waves of wishful thinking,

Embarrassment and shame.


You lied to me! I told it.

Right before I sank.

Then in calm voice it spoke

No sympathy, or mockery, just frank.


You didn’t learn, when seeking me,

To perish at your own hand.

You didn’t learn, in finding me,

To end up lost and ragged.


Perhaps if I came right to you,

Wisdom would bid you run.

But like a dog returns to his vomit,

Your love affair with pain was not yet done.




I leave you now,

Your end is here, I will not interrupt.

Till we meet again remember;

You knew what I was when you picked me up.


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s


This entry was posted on February 5, 2017 by in Poetry and tagged , , , , , , , , .
%d bloggers like this: