The moth, I disdain

It needn't cause me pain

Harmless it may be

With no venom to me

It flies into my face

No pattern, no grace

A pitiable creature

In purpose and feature

For I cannot detect

A trait to respect

The spider spins its yarn

Across a lofty barn

And the bee does strive

To provide for its hive

But the moth helps none

As Icarus to the sun

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The moth, she knows the flame will burn
But back again, again she comes,
Her velvet collisions dress the air,
Sparkling against these tempting embers
Where she throws herself over and over
Upon the most flickering of fascinations,
Such senseless self-immolation 
Strips her to a carapace, 
Leaving her scorched, naked, undressed, undone, 
Beneath the tragic unravelling of her world.

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