The moth is drawn to the flame,
curious though tentative
he flits closer,
the heat scorches –
Although his wing is singed
he cannot cease his wondering,
in his mind he feels he must
continue to draw closer,
until he’s sizzling in a second,
both his wings in
devastatingly smouldering tatters.
The other insects,
they mourn their inquisitive friend
from the ground,
but what else could they have expected
from a being
perpetually drawn to the light?
It was the moth’s downfall
to be so hopeful,
to wish to be near a force so dazzling
that it would only burn out
his own light:
by that impermanent deathly flicker,
the poor moth’s obliterated picture,
a life cast aside by his final fateful flight,
what more than sadness and grief
could it have delivered?
© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
Image by Andreas Lischka from Pixabay
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