The Moth


flitting from building to building, window to window, it’s ashen wings
spluttering in the night air,
the moth, possessed by the call of electricital filamentation,
visits us, in our balcony smoking, speaking of the chemicals which rush
through our connections, together, smashed off the grappa.
we fall silent for a moment in the pause between a sentence, watching it
swirl amongst us, wings, flapping beyond the rate of our visual intake,
illumined in the fall of the living room light through the window.
somewhere in our physical systems, are we, too, drawn by manufactured
warders of what-we-can’t-see with the same urgency?
(we drive out to the vast silent darkness of the deserts to fill it with
pulsing lights, neon tubes a-swirl, the steady blinding throb of our
city’s noise)

in the space between the flickering in which nothing can be processed,
what crevices do our souls file into?

the moth’s own organic purposes betrayed, it stumbles like a drunk through
the by-ways of our hidden lives, alleyways barred with the business of
waste.

A ghost,
a leftover of the past, the moth
spends its short life fractured in confusion,
hypnotized by an oscillating light sealed behind glass,
a life consumed with a certain death.

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Author: manderson

I live in NYC.

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