August 28th, 2017



Words, like moths, bat against the lampshade of night,
flap their syllables, flashing and clashing,
look for something to give them a light, and those which ignite
turn from golden to ashen.

Every phrase could be either a find or a loss,
everything that we utter,
and the wind takes a mouthful of moths, and blows across
wordless space
their barely audible flutter.