Tomorrow is as bright as a porch light under the new moon I am the moth throwing myself against it Begging to be consumed
Death has no carriage His cloak, a blanket, He lies underneath, catching souls like falling snow Some curse his inattention, Others are just grateful for a place to land
They say it feels like drowning But I am hovering somewhere between earth and sun In equal hopes of home And glorious Home
Caught in silent suffocation I am tethered fast to both Unmoving, Unmoved.