Alone and drowning with curiosity
The little moth played around the fire
Warm and bright, the moth felt gay and free
But too close it got
And a little closer
So dangerously close
The warmth turned to heat
Bright it was and blinding
Still welcoming
But slowly killing the unwary thing.
The moth felt it
The scorching pain
But its nosiness won
Against all intuition to bail.
It was the first time the moth felt happy
For such a moment
To have quenched its thirst
To have followed the sweet beat of curiosity
And the fire
Danced joyously as the moth
Deceived, unsuspecting
Flapped its wings one last time.

But lucky it was to have survived
So close to tragedy
Face to face with reality
The price paid for innocence
The price almost life
The price more than life
The little moth
Now stripped its former identity
Wounded and destroyed
So close from the past that the feelings still linger
Yet so far from it now.

This is a poem about a feeling so shallow
It started too early
Stifled and quenched too fast
Still stings so deeply
With the world as the witness
Own self as the proof
Let the brain be the judge
The heart is the victim
The soul, broken.

This is a story of a tiny flower
Surrounded by the world
And yet by many worlds apart
It bloomed unknowingly
A beauty none the same
Not as extraordinary as it seemed
And yet a specter still
Trampled by many a foot
Down the murk its final tomb.

This is a history, a tale
Of a person too young
Drowning, in pain
Faced to the world and from the world rejected
Who gave away trust
Gained nothing more than a thousand wounds
For the hundredth time
And five more
Heart broken, fixed and revived
And one more time
For which everything has finally ended.

This is a lesson to all out there
A warning to all whose heart so soft
A guide, a note, a letter
A final goodbye.