The Sting

I’d been away in drunken flight,
side-slipping, sipping, life carousing,
strewing gardens with delight,
wings spread in sunshine, softly drowsing,
you espousing,
as I lingered, drinking light,
out of sight,

thinking you would come to me,
with your swaying lovers’ hips
tempting thus the humble bee
to light upon the labial lips,
taking sips
of honeyed dreams, upon a sea
of ecstasy.

Yet you took a different pathway,
spreading stamens of desire
when you heard another voice pray
with subtle tempting words of fire.
He was a liar
when he plucked you from the clay
to have his way.

Too late I came upon that placement
where you lay drooping, as I found,
behind a flyblown cottage casement,
petals falling on the ground
without a sound
to signify the sad abasement
your cutting lent.

A poem in the style of Oscar Wilde’s “Her Voice”

Photo: Sjjubs, Creative Commons

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