Blarney Castle hosts one of Europe’s largest gardens of lethal plants,
Filled with flowering folds of pretty poison,
Poised and prepared to pinch, poke, and paralyze
Anyone blundering through the bushes of beauty.
Barely brushing between the wrong leaves
Leaves you with a coin toss:
It will cure you or kill you.
Careful to not cause a catastrophe,
They cautiously creep around
Vines, vivid colors, cones of toxicity,
Terrible fates and futures resting right before
Your bare skin, begging to break through,
To claim you as its catch.
Wolfsbane, Mandrake, Opium, Ricin.
The balance between powerful painkillers and
Plain old killers.
Anxious admiration eats away at spectators,
Consumed by captivating curiosity,
Quickly crushing calamities of comfort,
Put at peace by picturesque petals,
Till casual admiration turns to
Cries for careful observation.
Thorns that scratch thin, slick slices, scaring and scarring those
That find their time ticking to a close,
Wondering whether they will wilt and wither or
If they will bud and begin to bloom.