For years and years,
That Leprechaun
Has only filled the same mold

A hapless fool,
His mind charmed by
his pot of gold

A poor sod
That thinks of nothing
But to keep
The metals within his hold

I have to admit
At this point,
It really gets old

Outside the window,
I catch him,
Staring up guardedly,
With eyes so cold.

He turns a cold shoulder,
His heart firmly chained
To the pot of gold

And I wonder,
When he will fold,
And realize that what matters
Is not the gold

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This poem was inspired by a writing prompt from the “Storyteller’s Vault” Publication.

Pot of Gold
charmed | hapless