i’m like the moth;
vellum wings whispered into existence,
forged and firm by the flame,
cooled in the grey-black river of night.
i’m like the moth…
underneath my wings and around:
streams of charcoal ribbon ends undone.
there’s midnight on my heart,
cooled in the grey-black river.
candle wears the flame
on her brow and the close,
tiny sound of wind whipping becomes
a birthday, church bells, traffic, a dirge.
every day’s a memory, momentarily a scar.
your step leaves no impression
in the grey-black river of night
that the flame cannot consume.
it is, was, and will always be.
i’m like the moth.
my dance is governed by
the close, tiny sound of wind whipping.
by the ever-changing, breathing flame,
in darkened rooms and hallways,
i flap my paper wings.