The moth by the firelight,
Drawn to the glowing pyre,
Yet a fire's ember never burn
In the face of a perilous liar.
The moth will swish and turn
And find a city of stars,
With hundreds of lights,
Burning far and bright,
Like the end of a thousand cigars,
Yet once the lights dim and darken,
The moth is soon to turn its path,
The city of stars, now glass inside jars,
The moth makes a folly attack.
But once the city is glowing again,
Just as it was before,
The moth will come back,
Drunk on its lack,
Of never making it far.
Offline)
Comments1
Of never making it far- a tale w caution mixed with the exacting journey so aptly described.
To be able to comment and rate this poem, you must be registered. Register here or if you are already registered, login here.