Moths—they are nearly all comprised of the same tender characteristics: empty colors that've somehow been ****** away like the nectar they digest, fuzzy abdomens that crumble within the softest pinch, and powder encrusted wingspans that fray with countless beatings from the wind. I have come to recognize that there are people like Her who dwindle within themselves among all of us, unheard; enthralled by color that doesn't exist to the naked eye, but rather to an imaginative mind and a battered soul. She is The Moth Girl and she, too is the epitome of simpler things. With Her fair skin and enchanting, grey eyes that **** you in with a single glance; lips so chapped and brittle that they're nearly as drained of pigment as the rest of her. I've decided that She is the reason oblivion hasn't doomed us all and obliterated our world to dust. I've imagined Her as oblivion itself, annihilating other galaxies and collecting the discolored soot from each explosion to sift it over the wings of every moth that has ever been criticized. With this, I have concluded that every moth must be a victim.
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But, if given the chance, would they transfigure?
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I've undergone the thrill of witnessing these moths revolutionize into harlequin humming birds that thrive at Her will. Wings that were once littered with dust are now far too rapid and swift for manifestation. The Moth Girl — She remains a flower of a woman, though now She is sprouting with petals that burst with color; filled with nectar sweeter than She. They are all rich with vibrancy.
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With it, they have concluded that it's not much different being evocative.
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After everything, I have decided that they were blooming with color all along, and it was the rest of us that simply couldn't see it.

D A Y L I G H T:
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In my premature years, black licorice had always been my favorite treat, as it evoked memories of my favorite bird: the crow. It was something like a token of my admiration. Laid in a brittle bed of crisp-like-fall leaves, eyes that were once much bigger would gaze at the sky and see it as a continuation of the ocean. I assumed there was more distance, more leaves, more crows; because the ocean was never just the boats that wavered on the surface.
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I never apprehended that throughout the day is when crows are most distinguishable. Their ebony cutouts, nefarious eyes, and visibly oily obsidian tones contrasted greatly against my favorite element of day – they rode through clouds like mere puddles of fog. Their squawking did not reverberate as boundlessly, nor did it ricochet against the buildings and quivering pine trees. The morning time is when the crows divulge in their breakfast meal, sipping dew from the tallest blades of grass while dressed all in black. It is never the question of, “did you hear that?” or “what was it?”. The crow is the crow as the pigeon is the pigeon.
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N I G H T F A L L:
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When the world is cloaked with its darkest twinges of night is when the crows become the /crows/, disappearing into their forest lairs. There, they resemble storm clouds that crackle with an aloof thunder regardless of hovering just overhead like a guilty conscience. At night, their hell reigns on a foreshadowed sanctuary – a repetitive funeral, Satan himself occupying a casket made from twigs, the flesh of mice, and children’s shoelaces. Your mind morphs into an unhinged vault, where they prowl and feed on your visions, and devour your common sense. They dilute your integrity with ingenuity.  The crow is no longer something vexatious, but rather you are - an intruder - and he, above you in every sense of the word.
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I lie here now, patient as the sun’s shift ends and a somber veil falls over relative land. I no longer face the obligation of licorice, and instead between my teeth resides the root of a sleek, onyx feather. “Sono vivo gui.”