In overcast mires, as ancient mosses creep
It’s a quiet mimic where the waters sleep
The Parrot Pitcher rears its painted head—
A crimson, low-slung, living, verdant bed.
Upon its globose cowl, a hooked beak stands
Tempting the wanderers, a honey trap expands
While clear, translucent windows trick the light
A maze of colour in the damp, dark night.
Down below, retrorse hairs guide every guest
Where drowned desires softly sink to rest—
Into the lobster-pot that knows no turn
As fire-red veins with slow digestion burn.
No birdie song, just a silent and still frame
The wetlands hold this master of the game.
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