moth

the lesser appreciated butterfly,
the hairy and mottled, aimless one,
drunken hummingbird without direction,
the moth appears and makes nuisance of light.
for this i love you, the one with the ashen wings
and singular purpose of resurrecting fire,
you inhabit the night, leaving the glory and beautiful
tasks to your more delicate cousins of the day's delight,
the butterfly that kisses the pollen;
no, the day and the flowering sun would decimate you,
that great lamp so distant would take you from me,
far away into heaven in your solitary desire
to transform your flesh into ember.
for you it is the light of humans, the artificial sun
that beckons your soul seeking blind unity
with the impenetrable whiteness of purity:
so much like me, blind and tempted far too easily
to scatter your cocoon and fly into the eye of god,
agonizing in your desire to free your dusty form
of the burden of your featherless wings.
you are my guide through this night, my lamp is yours,
teach me the secret of your wandering
as i search for the moon, that epic and platinum bulb
fixed to the ceiling of night, as i flutter with haggard aim
yearning for her cold smooth flame, tasting ash,
smelling the singed flesh of my heart and soul,
trying not to get lost in the clouds.