The moth
The moth flies free
It flies sporadically
But…
Does it know where it’s going?
On a hot summer night
It seems to lose it’s way.
It flitters in through the open door.
Sigh
Poor moth
Poor, poor moth
This is the beginning of the end
My dear friend.
If you pinch the silky, powdery wings
Between two fingers
They turn to dust.
Tattered and fragile
Floating through the room
You cup your hands around it
And it flutters free to roam
It hovers, flickers and suspends
It finds solace
Behind a curtain
On the ceiling or the wall
And then it dies slowly.