On a cold night,
Wings flutter
Like a heart beat
Tugged
By false butterflies.
In an effort
To not be subsumed
by The nights pitch,
the moth
Follows the scent
Of the light
unaware of the
ubiquity
Of darkness.
It drifts above the memory
Of expectation
Of the butterfly
It never became
Of the people that shunned him
For not filling out
The dotted lines they created
He is happy.
He is grateful.
For he has
The moon as his compass
To find his way...
....But not tonight...
I sit
on this cold
Ceramic park bench
Watching the light
flicker.
The moth,
on a loop of happiness,
mistakes a dimming bulb
for the moon.
If only I had
that kind of ignorance...
or is that optimism?
If I told him
Would he fade
Into the darkness?
Would he hang on
To the illusion?
Would I?
Does anyone
have the right
To disturb
A quest
For true light?
Even in vain?
---The bulb goes out.
©pyromancy
P