Monday, May 24, 2010

The Moth

The fire draws near.
The flames touch my hands,
Scorch the skin.
Flecks caress the hairs on my forearms standing up –
Scared? Afraid. Reckless.

I do not feel a thing.

The air envelops,
Breathes poison into my lungs;
Fills my entrails;
Enwraps my senses sharp anew!
Alert? Inert. Mummified.

There is a butterfly circling nearby.

A butterfly circles nearby.
Close to the flame,
In the fragrant poison.
I watch. Inert. Uncaring. Afraid.
Reckless. Scared. Not feeling a thing.

A butterfly circles the flame.
Gasps in the poison breath.
I watch. Cringe.
Desperate for the colours.
For the light. For the span of wings exalted in rest.

I fly towards the light.

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