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Plain moths. We follow the light Never daring to touch it Filters on our eyes, Seeing things That are far from the truth Oblivious to realize the facts. She came swiftly then.
There's a moth in my bed That came in through the window Helanded on my flat foot The top to be exact He knew of his shape. Impressions of his shape of beauty Was implanted inside my head.
Even the palest light lingers in the mind Alluring, warm, radiantForever glowing, calling. Until our fragile consciousness is broken-And then taken. Drawn in too close, we burn
In a pauper's clothes I dance in the air Beneath the cloak of night. ~
No brave solider from Greece or Rome ever so dutifully entered their final home. No pilgrimage of martyr or holy saint was made with such solemnity from a soul less taint. Then that of a moth on his calamitous rise
A moth flits through the airUntil a grey paw darts outAnd pulls it down.Then it is gone.
How doth the little moth Fly high up in the sky? Flitting gently from light to light It seems to find pleasure and delight. How does he fly with so llittle care? Clumsy and such, but STILL doesn't care
Why do you come to the light? It is your death you know. You’re fluttering about my room doomed to die on my cluttered floor You should not have trusted my open window And yet you did, Why?