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The Moon is home to those lost in the night
We are drawn to her like moths
In the glow of her pale light
The world feels soft
And welcoming
Suddenly I understand
Details that daylight cannot expose
Only Moonlight.
I wonder why so many people write poems and songs about the moon.
k e i Aug 31
“so, did you say it?”


“you know what.”


“the butterflies in my stomach; they flutter when i attempt to.”

“so don’t let them turn into moths. they’d only swarm and rattle more cages.”
Echo Jul 30
i wandered in the forest, as so many hopeless do
despite the warnings of the wise
and found myself tracing the world
fingers ghosting over leaves and foxglove blossoms
as the woods grew dark around me
and the moon seemed to shy away from my path

when i stood still to search for it, what i found instead was her
standing tall enough to choke the light
and yet almost like a flame
bloodied flowers growing from her chest and covering her ribs
and antlers stretching from her amber hair

"i am", she spoke, "the patron of dreams just barely forgotten
the echo of a memory straying further away
the more you strive to keep it close"

a flutter between us in the silence
a moth
landing on her skin
and attempting to draw blood
where it sat, a new flower spread
swallowing it whole

my head felt heavy as i swayed
slick sickening warmth coating my teeth
i fell to my knees and as i did
my eyes met the leaves and dirt below
but where before there had been sticks and wood
i saw bones littering the earth

"it is a shame", she said
over the sound of the forest stirring
twisting with displeasure at my discovery
"you were as beautiful as you were lost"
Once again, no moths were harmed in the making of this poem. I think.
Echo Mar 14
This night I got lost
In a field of lilies
Some white and broad
Some red and fine
Both are for death
One for mourning
One for killing
And as the moon's light slowly fades
As the morning sun rises
And red becomes pink
Becomes yellow
Becomes blue
I feel the last remaining moth land on my arm
There is a peace in knowing it wont last much longer
And neither will I
No moths were harmed in the making of this poem
hannah Sep 2019
The only person
I wanted to see today
Isn't even here
So I'll just sit
Do my work
Let the minutes
Pass like moths
Fluttering to the light
They're sick. It *****, but it's okay.
blushing prince Sep 2019
there is a moth that resides on my bedside table
inside the warm lamp like a womb
like an endearing cozy hand
reaching for your face in the middle of a frozen hysteria
he rises from his bed of light every night
a bottom floor full of mirth and fuzz
ready to relay the songs of his memories
slow dancing in the small space of my room like he's memorized where the floor slants and what parts creak
his mouth moves in a jagged frenzy and I am devoured inside the falsetto of a pregnant hum so constant my breathing loops in significant O's
he waits for my eyes to close so that his wings open up
moving the dust to gather itself and move to another part of the house
the fluttering in sync with the wavering of the hypnotic sound waves
the antennae sighing along with the mist outside slowly forming on the windowsill
my head becomes a hot sun and as the beads of sweat trickle he moves closer until he reaches with spindly legs
drying the perspiration from my forehead with a tongue that shushes me to sleep until I am still in a cocoon of silk
telling me that want and need are always the same things
always the same things
i submitted this into a contest but I think I'd rather just post it here
Pyrrha Aug 2019
I don't have butterflies in my stomach
They are more like moths
Eating me alive from within

I kind of like the way they tickle
Anastasia Jul 2019
she was
shadow cast
born of dark
eyes like jewels
and a starry night sky
night dew as her tears
moon dust in her lungs
the moths were her butterflies
fireflies, her halo
she was
shadow cast
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