Song of the Moth

[smokingboot]

It was always about the thing I wasn’t
It was always about my life as lost promise
When no one understood my masterpiece
Was to survive under the stairs knowing
There would be no letter from Hogwarts
No rescue and just one magic;
To turn into a moth living
threadbare colour among the discards
And it was lonely, fluttering through the broken
because nothing is ever mended.
When the door opened I stepped out
No dust on my wings
Antennae scraped clean
And the only ones who know
what it took to get here
Are the moon, the lamp, and the flame
whom wise moths call
Love, and Death, and God.

Hmm. This has been sitting around for years, never quite right. It's still not quite right now, but I think this is probably the best I can do with it. There is a point when a poem has decided its shape irrespective of what the poet would like. It sets.

So there you are, moth, out you go.

Comments

[mallorys_camera]

I love it.

[smokingboot]

Thank you. We appreciate your kindness, the moth and I. ❤️