you sang your song in the dead of the night that thursday.
and each note that flew from your mouth was a moth,
dying and gasping for breath in its last struggling moments.
and as the pale moonlight shone down upon you like shards of glass,
I could see right through you
[you're so thin-skinned]
to your innermost thoughts.
and I expected beauty or wisdom or hope or all of these,
but I saw nothing and wondered
how the moths that flew from your mouth were so beautiful,
and how the cold tears that you cried could express so much
if there is nothing inside.
where is it then, your soul?
does it come from some un-nameable source?
how sad that you are not the creator of those beautiful moths,
but merely the one who birthed them,
only for them to die in the still air of that thursday.