The warm flame attracts the moth.
The moth wills itself to sacrifice its own beating wings
for a moment of the flame's eternal radiance.
If the moth knew it would be set ablaze,
Would it still seek to embrace dancing fires?
No matter their beauty, surely it would recoil,
and yet I do not.
More foolish than the moth I am.
For I know her flames burn,
yet I long to reach out.
To touch, to kiss, to hold
Her soul in disrepair.
I do not want to ache but cannot refuse her smouldering caress.
I am a moth offering my beating wings
She is the flame, slowly fading as I disintegrate.