Like the gentle moth drawn towards the flame
Even as it’s eye’d wings begin to ignite
It cannot help but to flutter maimed
On wards, searing in the heat of the light

Making alas; night breaks into the day
The morning star peeks o’re the horizon
It’s sights become scattered in such a way
That nothing is missed, going forth; anon

Yesterday evening’s candle of the past
Sits dried, once alive; liquid pool of wax
Rests easy within it’s blackened burnt glass
Wick dwindled to unlightable black ash

And in lieu of all the death that surrounds
The energy, I’m assured, has no bounds...