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Vitæ Dec 2013
Moth, dancing moth,
dance to the light. Dance to the death.
Break those wings to free the flight,
the sea is far and here is no hearth, not here.

Fly, moth, fly
away from the lilted breeze so to breathe easy.
Your heart is in shock; Moth, go back to
from where you come.

Moth, falling moth,
no crevice in sight, dear moth—where has your illusion
gone? Moth don’t waste time, hurry yourself and
cease the end, in through the spaces and far from time.

Wingless moth, pained.
The light shines only on you. What disturbance (perturbing the soul)
held moth back?
Heather Butler Dec 2011
I was a moth
drawn to your flame
once.

I was a moth
when I saw your candle
extinguish
from afar.

I was a moth
being burned by your embers
touching
the scales on my wings.

I was a moth
on your doorstep;
I fluttered about the light on your front porch
while
you kissed her goodnight.

I was a moth;

I was a moth;

I am a moth,
and I am dying.

I am a moth,
and there is little time left for me.

For, in a month,
the magnetism will cease,
and the flame
will burn out.

Then what is left?
Moth Wings, in the city
Moth Wings, aren't even pretty

Trying to get far
These wings won't hold me off the ground

Trying to set sail
The ocean storm is knocking you down
It's knocking you down

Steal hearts, at the party
Steal hearts, deny thee

Love is now an icebox filled,
With poison and wines
Platonic memories trying to forget,
Forget all the love that once was,
The trash you once called treasure,
Where hate equals pleasure

Moth Wings, in the city
Moth Wings, aren't even pretty
Aren't even pretty, Aren't even pretty
Little Moth Wings

Go now thing about the pretty little things
The innocence that once surrounded love
OH, IT WAS SO OUTSTANDING

Where the beauty lies,
Love is where your truth will die,
Love is where his truth becomes a lie,
She will cry, Oh, she will cry

Moth Wings, in the city
Well Baby, aren't you so ****,
Pretty
Aren't you so ****,
Pretty,
Little Moth Wings
This is a song that I wrote about 6 months ago. Let it mean to you whatever you feel.
Little Bear Jul 2016
the moth man
is waiting
for the moment

to pin You
little moth

so delightful
is the light
so light
so bright

You can't
but help
battering yourself
silly

little moth

hide from his light
take flight
little moth

for the light
is night
and death
becomes

oh little moth
i beg
take flight

the moth man pins
whilst You flutter

pins while You shine

While You shine
so bright

he pins

he takes your light
little moth


just out
of sight
It rubs the lotion on its skin or else it gets the hose again.
pop culture... yeah... that yawn...
borrowed from the t.v....

   belle delphine... makes a comeback:
                                                       ­    i'm back...

       i must be a real riddle...
                                              though...­

      there i was thinking:
sorry... i was on auto-pilot...
i started to think of...

                harley quinn -
ava max - sweet but a ******...

trouble: i know what a tease
of regret looks like...
i also know what...
a make-shift...
nazgul harem of bulgarian
looks like... too...

        a tease of regret:
a former girlfriend...
striptease of a follow-up
narrative...
very nice... oh oh so nice!

but this one is clearly not beyond:
being a push-over...
belle delphine is no harley quinn:
i.e. ******* seriously sober...
**** your entranced: drunk...
******* sober overtly sober twice...

but... for the bathwater...
and... no...
i am the omega man...
on the list... of... allowed...
men... to *****...
into a genocide tissue
of... banking on genes:
without a ****-up
mother and father sort of
narrative...

         for the drunk:
the sobering whirlwind of reality...
because when rich people
like... should... i... inject...
myself... with some... broown show-gar?!

like i once asked an aesthetician:
i guess in reverse...
i was put under the scalpel and:
the selfless dictum of medicine...
he asked me: what books?
i asked him: quo vadis?

                i thereby managed
to burn the bookmark...
who was sane enough to salvage
the book i was reading?

    clued in on the: beside the brothel
antics...
   this clearly aesthetic girl...
this money making
crazy wheel this buttocks of
supra-roulette...
   when man and death...
the trough... the rhine valley
of trenches and brick-making
tactics for the ***** pederasts
on top...
those cherries those readily...
and thereby... easily...
cusps of iced cream...

                prostitutes speaking...
their gimp and limp-sidekick...
hard-on...       "procrastinations"...
to rhyme to rap...
by the way it looks like:
to rhyme is to rap:
to rap is to rhyme:
  
cookie dough oh oh *******...
and crisp-et... cookie ok: dunking...
slippery and swoon... and sweat...
   boy george fickle...
somehow browning... and none of that...
best dead before:
there was ever a best before date...

and then....
                      MA-GI-C!

playing a game of caesar's thumb:
      versed... in pollice verso?
          how do you play a game of
caesar's thumb?

oh... well... you will require a female maine ****
cat... and some... adamant moth...
the game works... like:
you proving to the beast:
you are not... toying with the moth...
the moth is a lesser creature
to both of you...

how does one play a game of caesar's thumb?
when one only has...
an agitated moth to catch once in a while...
and a maine **** cat:
to give attention to...
with a clenched fist:
with the entombed moth trying
to wriggle its way with
a fluttering of the wings...

   there's also that female
mosquito...
clenched onto by a pinch involving
one of her leg-work limbs...
and being a female...
she pulled and tugged and made
a "dialectic" of the verbs associated
with that limb extension...
a male maine **** cat would
have made a feast of her...
like he would of the cobwebs...

she escaped with 5 legs... to her original 6...
but a month...
i can't disfigure...
too quick for the lassy...
i held the moth in my clenched
fist like a rattle of fluttering
wings teasing...
not enough...
top bored from having
the impossible catch of the night...

the moth always remains: intact...
alive...
either cat catches the moth...
or leaves ones bedroom:
with a blooming gloom
of boredome....

but that's how to keep intact
a "sanity"...
a visit to the brothel...
becomes... a typo-
       for a shop only butchers are only
allowed to... inhabit...
    the sentencing of meat...
the clarity of heaving a life
of a moth in one's clenched fist:
and there's a thirst...
of the fist: to draw that lost samble
of: the begrudged familiarity
of language: and given that...
it's all in 21st century crude / rudimentary...
and rhyme...
            
       no caged beacon of the heavens...
of a lost circumvent...
caged lottery of the rhyme
of being perpetually caged...
       for the loot of **** and cockrel loitering...
like: morn is the cry to whine!

a game of caesar's thumb...
there was once a clenched fist: and a thirst for
blood...
now... a maine **** she, cat...
and a moth... fluttering...
like... an agitated petal-wing-and-rose...
too many "bored"
marihuana junkies stalking these
english streets come twilight...
one almost bumped into...

agitated by my poker facing
the already agitating grey-ish...
by the number...
by the number:
                   what-what of...
if he be not the king george:
having to give up h'america...
then he's no helen mirren...

          a game of caesar's thumb:
any and if all be owned:
that antithesis of a game of chess...
a game of both
kings and paupers...
3D dynamic: and madmen!

"revision": belle delphine...
cold... hearted... capitalist at... brain-sizzle...
but... gravitating toward
two outlets of fiction....
   belle delphine ≠ harley quinn...
a little ******... oh so hot...
hot tender me oh my ***:
posion the daisy...
poison rose should... a rose be all
the more... already... poisoned...

a visit to the brothel:
a visit to the butcher shop:
for the cho- chop and chopping assurances...
the crooked crown on an already
crooked head...
the statue of charles II
in soho sq....
        
              i most certainly paid for much
less than this ****-tenure-of-a-tease....
but then... to have an argument...
you'd need to mingle with a bunch
of thieves... murdering slob-gatherers
of phlegm...

            poisoned red-bunch of
a wholly rosed-up affairs of loiter...
and time: such a prized dead-end of
eventuality...

            the father the god:
the sacrificial lamb...
because... god forbid she was
ever to somehow burden
a deity with a: one first...
once and a daughter...

                  ****** fun-fair for
the riddled ghosts...
       blank shot shrapnel...
                     better suited...
midnight blue of the alias black...
then at least:
best... towing two gaylords
with everyone's bet on
typo and a bullseye!

   but never... the sensibly...
      hetrosexual normative...
goody twice-tied...
shoe-and-shine:
pwetty: that girl and:
you best forget to whine!
that girl and you'd wish...
            her father was a shtalin....
because...
crude and rude...
and all that's ****...
before Lucifer peeks with
a... siamese cranium...
              
      death to all...
who have made it concise...
in making life:
hardly... a... pardon....

  yes... best equipped it making it:
magic! and all the more difficult...
but never difficult enough...
difficult enough...
when... somehow... never... citing...
an... albert fish...
needle in my pelvis...
to... exfoliate... with any...
and more... addition of...
pain as an... ******...

      i guess the plead of the shawshank
sisters drops...
it always drops...
when there's a "conflation"
of evidence...
surrounding... the lower-base...
extremity: the crab genus...
       crustaceans....
    child- this-and-that...
       ****-fiddler...
             but a cannibal to boot?!
you... talk...
or simply... electrocute said:
individual...
since... your... ******* 'ed...
is already fried by the magic
of norm-frequence...
and the already: herd... estasblished...
Norman?
you with me...
sptunik jimmy...
               you with me... cream-soda joe?
you with me...
finding aliens already bigger
than flies... the widow mantis...
blessed joseph josephine?!
*******-numb-wit?!

oh yes! all conession: avowed
to you!
               because...
who isn't...
      in russia... they vowed
to keep these cain canine brood phlegm
of an *******: freely to roam...
siberia... that was the promise...

when they would **** a birth-firvolity
of a: devil and the "by chance"...
when converting man to
the stature of elevating wolf or bear...
and all the better...
rather than... caging the odd-ball
parody of... lacklustre joke and...
moth-ball-rolling...
****-wits the: future!
supposed! narrative!
******'-h'america...
              celebrated feature of culture
most involving... a horror...
      and... bull-wrapping!
               a ******* for a skinning!
Living moths festoon dark roominess,
whole wide Nitenidus outside black bathrooms,
cheeky creepy cockroaches cockbroach
meathook lapels of Night,
dapper carcass of the blackballed Day.
The Day is well gay,
w/ its blister of red butcherflies.
But yesterday & I
are not so different,
given the ***'s rush out of Existence,
the Country Club of Human Potential.

Give me Night's open plan, dark sky park
blueprint dapslashed in undertaker's bootpolish
over any day anyday.
Universal inkwell we wander into
like spiders in the Beano.
Starlight, millions of runt suns
levy obscure orients at inscrutable heights.
Unimaginable distance is relative,
all my imagination does is distance me.
But tonight I shall stitch my dead moth stichs
of dead moth schtick sewnonymously unto
the Norfolk Night.
My Rorschachwinged write-
up of crispers upon crispers of the critters
will wear you, Norfolk Night, breathlessly & blindly,
like you were a hooded overcoat
w/ no holes to facilitate
thumbtwiddling or gobsight.
By these dead moth odes, I become your host,
5'6 embodiment of a black sock
w/ all my mortal might.

Night, I wear your weary
spidery epaulettes, tramptuft
peek thru your sleepingbag shoulders
of middleaged soldiers' slow suicide
on civvy street (literally, concretely).
A couple of wraps of dead moths
in the breastpocket of Norwich Vice,
1 w/ the Omniscuzz,
heavybreathing slugs honking at slags.
& us angelheaded hipsters
gonna walk down Cattail Street
to Our Work on an alcourier
carrierbagtwizzle mission at 6am.
Lousy Prince Lice & his ex-insect entourage,
dead moth cortege & court of overcocky
carkroaches. What have I got riding
on a bonafide dead moth **** sock
of a mythopoeic deposit?

I am erring on inauthenticity,
as if Turin Cloth
a whimsical medieval weaver
imprinted w/ his soninlaw's
peasant chic, protoWoodstock likeness
to hock as roly helic.
I longago gotout of the bath.

But it's more complicated than that:
poets are undergrowth spirits
who find garments on the ground
that have never been worn.
Do not confuse this w/ chrysalises,
chrysalice's bulb of wings
is ball of collapsible coffinlids.

To inanely ingrain
a Top Of The Pops Of Dead Moths
upon the Night Whoise - how close
is my imagination to conquering infinity?
All the insects that will die tonight
in Norwich to be approximate, best I can get.
Insects, living, are never innocent
or heartening as fishful goblets at night,
dead moth olived bathwater I neck to nail
this noctuary pretensionproof.
What a dead moth & a Dark Poet
have in common is that they are not aloft.
Danielle Shorr Jun 2014
My mouth is full of moths
My words are not pretty
They do not flutter out with grace and ease
Instead
Twitching as they find their exit from my lips
They are not butterfly
With a name so smooth that it rolls off the tongue
I am not monarch
But
The decaying flesh it preys upon
The contrast between beauty and reality
I do not know why
Why
People like me are attracted to light
I guess it makes since
To swim towards brightness
When you've spent so much of your life in the darkness
Cocooned in between empty spaces
Nesting in silk spun from my own silence
I have spent months inside my shell
Learning how to find my own voice
Learning how to speak my own language
Hearing myself talk for 18 years but for the first time actually listening
Like moth
Touch sends me fleeting
Like moth
Attention back into hiding
I am not conspicous
Nor do I crave to be
Like caterpillar
We
Are all given blind hope
Told that someday
We will be noticed
Visible
Beautiful
But some spend so much time
Preparing for glory
That they forget storybooks lie
That in real life
The very hungry caterpillar
Who was promised butterfly
Becomes moth
Moth
What most see as ugly
And intrusive
Chewing holes in your finest clothing
Making home unwanted places
Moth is undesired
Butterfly is welcomed
Tell me why
One is invited in and the other shut out
Moth is not pretty
Moths lack ofbeauty
Is enough
To disregard it
All at once
Different is enough
To disregard all at once
Do not disregard me
Because I am not ideal
Because i am not fully painted winged beauty
We as a society only stop to see what catches the eye
Unable to notice the intricisies
Of darkness
So look a little closer
Try a little harder
Because if anything is to be known
It is that beauty
Is not
In the obvious.
Pluto Jul 2019
I see you!
My past, my pain, my former shadow!
The vessel of my existence but the emptiness of my soul!

I see me!
Enveloped in false aspirations of gods, kings and legends
But there are no more than men who walk among the same muck that YOU and ME have between our toes !

I see us!
Never the butterfly from the cocoon
But YOU a moth to a moth... from ME a moth into a moth... to US a moth is a moth.. I am a moth... and will be a moth.

I see them!
Whispering... consprising... admiring... desiring...
Yet they look like YOU, sound like ME, move like US, act like THEM but ask who am I ?

I see I...
Holding a knife...hands and face covered with blood...breathing heaviness and relief...
You're dead ! Finally !
YOU!
ME!
US!
THEM!
I!

DEAD !
I see YOU in the mirror. Feel ME in darkness. Hear US in my head. Speak to THEM when they want. But never believe in I.

They are all me who I only see but who am I is still my misery/mystery ?
Isabella Soledad Apr 2017
One brisk spring afternoon, a boy found himself adventuring down a local forested path. The sun beamed down through the trees, creating golden stips of light that fought their way through the newly grown greenery. The crunch of the earth beneath his feet could be heard from a distance as unimportant thoughts drifted through his mind.
He paused and set himself down on a large rock by a bubbling stream. The water created an ambiance that made a rush of calm flow over his mind. His eyes drifted around a bit, taking in his surroundings when suddenly a butterfly flittered down and flew around his face. A smile spread wide across his features as he lifted up his hand to try to catch it.
The butterfly grazed his hand, but then flew away as fast as it could, as it was afraid of the boy. He frowned in disappointment, wanting nothing more than the butterfly itself to flutter down onto his hand so he could admire it once more; But he was left in despair.
Two more butterflies of the same pattern found themselves drifting along the face of the boy, and he tried to catch them as well, for maybe they would fill in the gap that the first had left. He caught them both, but only briefly, as all butterflies were beautiful, but fleeting.
The boy tilted his head in disappointment, and sat there alone for some time, an array of butterflies coming and going, none of them filling the void left by the first.
Suddenly, a pure white moth came into view.
The boy scowled, unsure of what to make of the moth as it was nothing like the other butterflies that he had encountered before. The moth flittered around his face, and he raised his hands slightly, prepared to swipe the creature away.
The moth found itself landing softly on the nose of the boy, its fuzzy little wings tickling his skin upon contact.
He couldn’t help but smile, but felt a little uneasy, as he was only used to butterflies.
The boy lifted the moth gently from his nose, and perched it on a nearby branch. It’s little wings lifted its body from the perch, and tried to fly back toward the boy, but he gently shood the creature away. Finally, it gave up and landed itself back onto the branch in which the boy had placed it. There the moth stayed, watching the boy chase butterflies endlessly until he could chase no more.
Katzenberg Jul 2014
I saw you fallen in front of me
motionless and in grief
your only hope has faded
your little life is diminished.

For a split second I see
a tiny flap of wings
clumsy and weak
I hear your voice within me.

"Is it all you can do for me?"
"Why are you taking me?"
"You got a light?"
"Your hands are so warm..."


Moth, moth... can you stand still?
there is no light in here
Moth, moth... do you ever sleep?
live one day and forever be.
(I know nothing about poetry,  just write what and how it comes to my mind,  hope you like my debut in here.)
Ariana Mar 2012
I am the moth, you are the flame.
I am blinded in the darkness,
Surronded by the cold.
I am fragile, weak and fleeting.
I am the moth.

You are the flame.
You burn bright and true,
Chasing away shadows with your light.
You draw me closer and closer,
Enticing me with the heat you exude.

I am the moth intoxicated by the flame.
You are forbidden, yet irristable.
The fire is seductive, untameable, and wild.
My desires are undeniable.
But to touch is to be burned.

I am the moth, killed by your flame.
Ambita Krkic Dec 2010
“The Moth”

   My mother always told me that the easiest way to walk was in a straight line. It would always get you somewhere, she believed. One night, I chose to follow her somewhat twisted philosophy. Twisted, because there are no straight paths to walk in Manila, a maze of a city.

   The streets were lit with small, flickering streetlamps that gave off weak glows. I followed a few night shadows, hearing nothing but soft whistle of the January wind. The sidewalk was uneven, my shoes, scratched and dirtied from constant dragging. This was how it was walking aimlessly over the remnants of the day --- cigarette butts left crushed and scattered by the numerous strangers and university students, empty plastic cups, crumpled bags of chips and multi-colored candy wrappers bathed in murky puddles of floodwater from the rains that happened in the afternoon. Strange street smells hung sleepily in the midnight air. I stopped only to make sure I had not wandered too far, or rather, if I had wandered far enough to get away --- to get lost, until I finally crossed to Antonio.

   In the daytime, it is alive with movement and idle chatter, Food hawkers manning their stalls, homeless children begging for their next meal, and stray dogs rummaging though the garbage dominate the scene.

   It was the darkness that enveloped this street that gave it its eerie magic that drew me in, a stillness that was never there in the day. I was surprised at where my feet had taken me. I sat the curb, relieved that I could finally hear myself think.

   I wasn’t always like this you see. I wasn’t always lost, wanting to run away, always feeling the need to move, to leave. I was a good girl, someone who knew what it was she wanted, I colored inside the lines, and people loved me for doing so. You would never find my old self wandering recklessly at such an unholy hour.  A Dean’s Lister, my late nights were spent at a desk in a world of hi-liters and coffee instead of partying under the bright lights of Manila, a beer bottle in hand.

   In the deafening silence, Antonio’s mystery slowly unraveled itself to me. I watched insects as they scurried up and down the chipped cement walls. The existence of little lives, unseen, but felt in the darkness. Eyes, I was quite certain, eyes were watching me.

   And I let them watch,

   It was as if they owned me. They watched with penetrating stares, just as they had watched me as I lost myself to the city. Little by little they waited for me, to crash. Here, I became the city’s plaything, clay that had been molded to conform to the world’s alien norms. I came to discover what it really meant to be lost; that lost was not just an adjective one uses to describe something that has gone missing; the absence of small, insignificant things taken for granted. Getting lost, I realized, was an act I slowly succumbed to.

  With a sigh, I stood up to stretch my aching limbs. Looking around I noticed a moth flirting playfully with the streetlight. As a child, I often wondered what it was about lights that attracted moths. Was it the glow? The warmth? Or simply because they had nothing else to do? No place else to go?  

  I felt much like that moth. Once so free, yet sadly misguided to a senseless existence of cigarettes, alcohol, pretentious friendships, and unrequited love. The first time I had smoked was with a boy I had fallen in love with. His voice echoed in my head.

  “You have to breathe it in,” he said. “Taste it.” Inhale. Exhale. I coughed as my throat itched and a bad taste began to spread in my mouth. He snatched the cigarette away from me saying I was never to do that again. He smoked the rest of it and lit another one.

   It was a quiet kind of love, unspoken, instead written down and locked away; a love whose voice I kept hanging at the tip of my tongue; a love that was a different kind of lost, a different kind of lost, and a different kind of lust altogether. It consumed me, all of me. Entirely. And then, he left along with the rest of the world. The word “lost” then became synonymous to a kind of drowning --- to drown, and I did: in beer, in tears, and in thoughts.

  “Cruel, isn’t it?” I asked in the moth’s direction. “How this world has a way of making us fall in love with the wrong people? How people never seem to stay in one place for too long? How we all wake up one day and realize that we have just completely lost ourselves? That our souls have wandered off?”

  Everybody gets drunk to forget, or at least I do. It was in one of those hole-in-the-wall eateries at the far end of the street that I first discovered the wonders that beer had on a person who had no desire to remember. I went there weekly, dragging whoever was available along with me. I listened to them as they told their stories in drunken slurs. Soon, our bodies reeked of alcohol, our faces red. The round table drenched in spilled beer and cluttered with greasy plates and peanut shells.

  I watched as my friends walked haphazardly around the room, cursing under their breaths. Some had forced themselves into a zombie-like stupor and had taken to some sort of sleepiness, their heavy heads hung low. Others sobbed hysterically in corners. I, on the other hand, stared at the ceiling. With my chair toppled over, I watched the swirls of dust and thick smoke form in the air and knew I was somewhere I didn’t belong. I wanted to forget, to figure out why I was living all to fast, who it was I was becoming, where my old self had gone. In those moments, I looked for myself, Instead of forgetting, I remembered.

  Someone once asked me if I have ever regretted losing myself, a question I have yet to answer. To say yes would be to lie. To say no, would also be to lie.

  That night, I thought: Maybe, at some point in life, getting lost is something that everyone has to go through, a trick that the universe plays on everybody --- shaking our worlds out of order. Maybe, we are all moths flirting with the deceiving light of life. Maybe we really are supposed to lose ourselves to the people we love, letting them leave and take a piece of our world with them when they do. We must let them leave and freely become figments of our being, where they tuck themselves away neatly, quietly along with distant memories of laughter and sadness. Maybe we are all meant to walk aimlessly at night, our heads down, as if in search of the broken pieces of ourselves, amidst the remnants of the past. Perhaps, we are just too blind to recognize that indeed, these remnants are the fragments we are looking for. Maybe, if we all just walked straight lines, we will find our selves waiting right where we left them.

  I looked in the direction of the light, only to find that it had gone off and the moth had flown away. The breaking of dawn signaled me to walk toward home.

  The city would soon wake.
Won 2nd Place (Essay Category) in the 26th Gawad Ustetika Awards at the University of Santo Tomas.
Lawrence Hall Apr 2017
Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com

The Luna Moth

The moon does not in fact wax anything,
She does not wane; she simply ever-is;
She rules the softly-sung, soft-summer nights,
A willing queen, and willingly obeyed.
The luna moth, her winged votary,
Clings to indulgent oaks of their kindness,
Their moon-sent goddess from another world,
And strangely robed and crowned in lunar green,
Pheroming softly for some other moth
To come perform with her those rituals
Of love illogical, of sacrifice;
For all a luna moth can do is live
A summer week or so, but in those hours

She loves

In lunar beauty, strangely eternal
Who needs a dying luna moth?
                                                We do.
Man-Moth: Newspaper misprint for "mammoth."
      
          Here, above,
cracks in the buldings are filled with battered moonlight.
The whole shadow of Man is only as big as his hat.
It lies at his feet like a circle for a doll to stand on,
and he makes an inverted pin, the point magnetized to the moon.
He does not see the moon; he observes only her vast properties,
feeling the queer light on his hands, neither warm nor cold,
of a temperature impossible to records in thermometers.

          But when the Man-Moth
pays his rare, although occasional, visits to the surface,
the moon looks rather different to him.  He emerges
from an opening under the edge of one of the sidewalks
and nervously begins to scale the faces of the buildings.
He thinks the moon is a small hole at the top of the sky,
proving the sky quite useless for protection.
He trembles, but must investigate as high as he can climb.

          Up the façades,
his shadow dragging like a photographer's cloth behind him
he climbs fearfully, thinking that this time he will manage
to push his small head through that round clean opening
and be forced through, as from a tube, in black scrolls on the light.
(Man, standing below him, has no such illusions.)
But what the Man-Moth fears most he must do, although
he fails, of course, and falls back scared but quite unhurt.

          Then he returns
to the pale subways of cement he calls his home. He flits,
he flutters, and cannot get aboard the silent trains
fast enough to suit him.  The doors close swiftly.
The Man-Moth always seats himself facing the wrong way
and the train starts at once at its full, terrible speed,
without a shift in gears or a gradation of any sort.
He cannot tell the rate at which he travels backwards.

          Each night he must
be carried through artificial tunnels and dream recurrent dreams.
Just as the ties recur beneath his train, these underlie
his rushing brain.  He does not dare look out the window,
for the third rail, the unbroken draught of poison,
runs there beside him. He regards it as a disease
he has inherited the susceptibility to.  He has to keep
his hands in his pockets, as others must wear mufflers.

          If you catch him,
hold up a flashlight to his eye.  It's all dark pupil,
an entire night itself, whose haired horizon tightens
as he stares back, and closes up the eye.  Then from the lids
one tear, his only possession, like the bee's sting, slips.
Slyly he palms it, and if you're not paying attention
he'll swallow it.  However, if you watch, he'll hand it over,
cool as from underground springs and pure enough to drink.
Christine Joy Mar 2018
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.
Von White Mar 2019
Crystal tears in beams of the ethereal triangle. (Moth)
Leave gleams of cosmic rays of colors new from all angles
Crying trying to hug a moth.  
As Crystal tears fall on sacred cloths.
Benighted Bug embraced in hugs
Wings are spread to hold one snug:
Deepens the sorrow,
smiles be smug
Deeply sad
happy songs sung
Deep so deep in altered states fun
Deep like your hole that was never dug.
For this is why thy is sobbing yet numb.
So missed, so loved
this head in dread hung.
Hysteric screams loud left ears that rung.
Mourning love on lavish lush.
Perhaps hard drugs
gleam in this rug.
Like Twinkle stars in eyes of lights bug.
Flutter now precious one.  
That moment has come.
For that cosmic lights in the night sky has shun.
Fly off now and thrive
Through Blessed skies twilight.  
Omega trifecta disjecta in white.
Disregard all  life’s ill lies
Project Past false folly worlds not wise.
Omega trifecta eternal cant die.  
Clothed in robes on moths back we ride
  Purple eyes On wings spread so wide.  
Protected With swords
worn on there sides
Giants enlightened
with violet sash tied
Guide these rides like blades on arm right
through chaos harmonized untwined.
be three inside when doors thy find.
Under cat pelt black mat
Crystal white key sleeps and  hides.  
Unlock bone carved door,
to obscure and pure life.
Flesh cold on *** gold,
Twist it like Pyrex pipes.  
Arived
Arived
Looks dead
Though alive
Triangle portals for immortals to rise.
  In bliss gnostic gifts of the purest of kind.
alive in parallel paths that have died.
Blind not the light,
as black sun in sky rise.
Omega trifecta disjecta drenched white.  

Insanity
123
Triangle eyes  
Upon moths wings.  
Insanity
123
How nice was it for you visiting.
Insanity
123
Lovely wings now wave to thee
Insanity
123
Love has come
Love will not leave.
Insanity
123
Of three
Triangles dance like seas.
Insanity
123
White it be
of love
of 3.

Burn forever has this flame.
Insane deranged the mental state.
Delirium comes
And is here to stay.
Now in the dark filthy room,
the schizoid hides away.
In Torment
in dormant
Destroy rituals save.
Healed by the hand
Upon masters embraced.
Purify soul
Preserve culture and race.
Clean blood the last goodness
left in this wretched place.
Yet still in stillness
stagnant turns blue in veins
Bloodletting not upsetting
Blades sway without pain.
As well as chop lines
Upon mirrors for days.
Twisting Pyrex orbs like a game
As well as starve self in sacred ways.
As well as smoke finest of *** never laced.
As well as this huffing to **** cells In brain.
The alcohol be it the final Intake.  
Rituals so official for healing in this hate.
Destroy
Create
Destroy
Create
Sleep deprived
for up to thee days.
Final hours
bring forth meat and champagne.
Replenish the ugly shell carbon based
Starved for many days
Sacrifices made done safe
Acts watering spirit
Sacred like this self inflicted pain
Be it in ethereal place
Where insane becomes sane.
Clean the mirrors like spirits slate.
Awaken here to rise.
Eyes alive appearing crazed
laughs upon the sad estates.
Fear all clear has disappeared
Nearly forgot the name
again please come play
like the sun does in may
Cloaked with veils soaked,
like the bed lovers lay.
Cloaked in veils soaked
With inhuman healing rain
Cloaked in veils soaked
Through shadows in thick smoke.
Abstract absurd croaks,
hang from yellow ropes.
Oh strange these roads
magicians go.
Zero fear crystal clear
With senses unknown
It is upon the humans where Paranoid confused madness cripples all life.
Where the eyes of the rubber skinned demons flutter like fast as hummingbird wings.
No logic or sense
reality has shattered.
Machanical animals glitch out like brains splattered
Oh the inner urge to stab synthetic creatures
Oh to destroy Gears and chips inside that “raccoon”
Oh to have oil drop off this sharpened knife
How the **** can one ****
That which is not even alive
Malevolent smiles on people on all sides
These are the things
these eyes have seen
Enough now on obsessing
on that which is now cleansed.
These are the reasons this obscure life be led.
These be the reasons these practices one tends.
These be the reasons for the drs meds
These be the reasons one ***** up this head.
These be the reasons that one is not dead
For these sacred acts in fact have fed spirit and flesh  

Dancing and laughing now through storming waves of chaos seas
Immortal threes ride storms through dark nights.

Until Timelessness be kind with bliss.
These moments will be missed
For the horror be done.
For the flesh be at rest.
Silk was a voice that little wings said.
For fabulous readings
Whispers to heart In chest.
Last lovingly gesture
face gently corresed
Kissing soft wings as the honored guest left.
Gracious be glorious gifts that were sent.
For a  radiant cosmic ray is shun
A Glowing beam bright as the sun.  
Open ethereal triangle windows up.
Fly far now back to lands you are from.
to gaze into ethereal triangular windows.
Free forever eternal have fun
be a triangular window.  
Oh how now to frolic.  
Within Crystal palace.
Oh how to drink from the purest of chalice.
Oh how now to frolic  
Do not stop it
Obnoxious
be not this calling.
Laugh and prans  
as if you have lost it
sheen as if polished.
Which  gleams like gold lockets
Soft the Royal purple carpets.  
Dance in trancemusic of inhuman artists
Terror tamed and disregarded.
of black and laced scarlet
Parallel white
Blackness falls.
Gone unto the sacred arts.
Beaming rays in callused  hearts.

Hard telepathic readings.
The physical health was releasing.
Now physical health is at full regeneration.
Regression
Regression
Regression
In threes
In these
Darkest light in vibrant scenes.
Walk the chaos fields
Laugh at this disease.
In threes
Your triangle
Your embrace please.
Speaking through the cosmic seas.
yes blood as flesh are with thee.
All moments of timeless times.
We both dismantled time and logic.
Witnesses of chronic tauntings.
Together cold hands at hops frolic.
Disability in the humans life
Keeping wits as sharp as knifes.
Laugh with thee
In three
Hahaha
Hahaha
Hahaha
Far to gone
Walking along with zero fear at all.
Within you now all distress is regressed.
You are immortal and free.
You speak through moths and trees.
Transcend the logic of all human beings.  
Beyond the sane and tamed.
Oh severely was such un heard of pain.
humans of hate and horror in black corners.
Chaos in eternal be harmony.
Through delusions
Through evil illusions.
Still immortals storm the insane vespers.
In m
Aquarius being of untouchable boundaries.
Virgo being of untouchable boundaries.
These moons

**** trying to word or logically read.
We’re born of the purest lights.
found in the darkest of seems.
Insane
In pain
In collapsed yet precious veins.
Insane
In pain
Happiness on earth not aloud.
Happiness in far away bliss.
Oh how the dread impails when such is missed.
Eternal
In white
In ligh in black
Laugh with thee as the wretched attack.
In purity
With purple sash on white robes
In light in darkness harness you will be loved and whole.
Still shovels crave to dig six foot holes.
Still death appears in the faces of the cold.
Love fortold in the hopelessness like mold.
Oh telepathic wanderer of true purity.
Eternaly
Your purity and loving being
Eternal shall your light be strong.
Your love in lungs as one rips bongs.
Of three you and thee
Of night
Of light
No more fright
For blackness has led them to might that is white.  
For love from the purest has held out inhuman hands.
Forever infinite beyond imagination of man.
Forever gnostic callings in not so human lands.
Crystal tears beam in ethereal triangle (moth)
Lawrence Wentzz Jul 2014
Hang me up to dry
Killers in our summer clothes.
A moth is dancing at the only
lightbulb in the dark.
I’m moving ******,
looking at the white of your eyes.
You woke me up too many times.
Now I don’t sleep anymore
and I think only at freedom
but I follow just the moth.
There’s nothing to do here;
I am only happy in bed,
in the bed of your mind.
Everywhere else i’ll die in mistery.
But tomorrow is to die,
today is to live,
to let your heart
enjoy the moth.
Arlene Corwin Jun 14
She Let A Moth Drown In the Lake

She let a moth drown in the lake,
Waves taking stackars* little thing
Further than her oar could reach.
Standing on beach, cupped eye,
Squinting, trying…
Moth was gone.
Death had won.

Just so you know I do no lie,
That ‘she’ was I.
I am the wimp who hesitated.
Fear of depth, of cold, of wet.
Excuses inexcusable.

Death of moth, still flapping moth
Is just as undeserving as our own demise.
Pedestrian, prosaic, commonplace,
Disgusting,
Yet compulsively discussable.

All living things delight in life-ness.
While they move and throb the slightest,
They delight.
Who takes a life by standing by
Will also die.
It is essential, is it not, to cry,
Identify with kin?
Kin hereby meaning ‘life within’.

Left with remorse and shame
She self-condemns,
She takes the blame.
She hopes some force
That knows the individuality of moth
Shows sympathy in rebirth
In some future form that has a breath.

So be it, Om, Amen to Earth!

She Let A Moth Drown In the Lake 6.14.2020 Birth,Death & In Between II;Nature Of & In Reality; Circling Round Nature II;Pure Nakedness;Circling Round Experience; Arlene Nover, Corwin

*stackars; Swedish; ‘poor thing’
Jacquelyn Morgan Nov 2014
The butterfly of many talents
talked nothing but of himself...
and never stopped to Listen
or gain true conversational wealth
cloaked in flamboyent colors
his butterfly wings so huge,
captured a little lost lady moth
(looking for the moon)
and kept her as his muse

just as the wings of the butterfly
so was the moths heart large
and so she inspired her captor unconditionally..
and loved freely, fanning him...
& flapping her wings too hard...
each time they would tear ,
she'd ignore the searing pain
for with all of her inner beauty;
by no means was she vain

the butterfly misused his muse
did not reciprocate emotion
so her wings drooping stupidly
with blind devotion
were as lost shadowed in his coloring
as before.......
searching for the light of moon in black ocean

he had never saved her from the vast
sky-sea & empty Galaxy
But used her flutter as a tool
to satisfy his selfish artistic needs

the little lost moth lost flight
As she began to understand
the light butterfly provided
was a stage light made by man

all the time she lost
robbed her spirit and stole her grace
so she rubbed the powder off his big bright wings and thought
-what good is his outward beauty now that he can no longer soar in space-
Disenchanted but free at last
moth tries but can never trust color
won't inspire art or music
and will never love another.....
Lawrence Hall Apr 2017
Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com

The Luna Moth

The moon does not in fact wax anything,
She does not wane; she simply ever-is;
She rules the softly-sung, soft-summer nights,
A willing queen, and willingly obeyed.
The luna moth, her winged votary,
Clings to indulgent oaks of their kindness,
Their moon-sent goddess from another world,
And strangely robed and crowned in lunar green,
Pheroming softly for some other moth
To come perform with her those rituals
Of love illogical, of sacrifice;
For all a luna moth can do is live
A summer week or so, but in those hours

She loves

In lunar beauty, strangely eternal
Who needs a dying luna moth?
                                                We do.
Erin Suurkoivu Oct 2016
Your moth light is supposed to
sustain me.

I am told to discredit
my sun,

its fuel unnecessary,
yours enough.

What do shadows live on,
this light?

I am the keeper of your
caterpillar dreams.
Featured along with other fine poems in my poetry collection, "Witch", available on Amazon and Lulu.
AB Nov 2011
A flickering illumination in a damp-aired room.
This lonely, glowing aura is the centerpiece of a dark abyss.
Crevices of this dungeon hide walls adourned with filth.
Suddently, wax drips from the candle reverberating an eerie echo.
This startles the only creature thriving in this everlasting, sinister darkness.

Awakened by the cease in silence and intriguied by the flame,
The moth leaves the safety of darkness and innocently begins to fly.
As he gently flutters towards the flame the moth feels something foreign --warmth.
Instinct tells him to continue flapping towards this otherwordly glow.
As if blind from birth and finally given sight, the moth now feels alive.

The combination of heat and light is addicting, he carniverously lusts for more.
Once innocent, the moth has now been corrupted by sheer ectasy.
Now, ceremoniously circling the flame basking in its heavenly glory.
Drunken with greed, the moth hastily swoops within inches of the flame.
A snakelike hiss consumes the room. --Darkness.

Its ravenous haste extinguished its short-lived salvation.
Now, cold as one-thousand winters, the moth can only dream of his lost savior
It can only wish that it had gone up in flames along with the candle now. . .
that pain would last a millisecond.

This pain is eternal.
Mar Jan 2017
Moths—they are nearly all comprised of the same tender characteristics: empty colors that've somehow been ****** away like the nectar they digest, fuzzy abdomens that crumble within the softest pinch, and powder encrusted wingspans that fray with countless beatings from the wind. I have come to recognize that there are people like Her who dwindle within themselves among all of us, unheard; enthralled by color that doesn't exist to the naked eye, but rather to an imaginative mind and a battered soul. She is The Moth Girl and she, too is the epitome of simpler things. With Her fair skin and enchanting, grey eyes that **** you in with a single glance; lips so chapped and brittle that they're nearly as drained of pigment as the rest of her. I've decided that She is the reason oblivion hasn't doomed us all and obliterated our world to dust. I've imagined Her as oblivion itself, annihilating other galaxies and collecting the discolored soot from each explosion to sift it over the wings of every moth that has ever been criticized. With this, I have concluded that every moth must be a victim.

But, if given the chance, would they transfigure?

I've undergone the thrill of witnessing these moths revolutionize into harlequin humming birds that thrive at Her will. Wings that were once littered with dust are now far too rapid and swift for manifestation. The Moth Girl — She remains a flower of a woman, though now She is sprouting with petals that burst with color; filled with nectar sweeter than She. They are all rich with vibrancy.

With it, they have concluded that it's not much different being evocative.

After everything, I have decided that they were blooming with color all along, and it was the rest of us that simply couldn't see it.
Mikaelyn White Oct 2014
Little ringlets of soft black hair
A pair of eyes so soft
I saw myself in her today
Until she flew
My little brown moth

Sometimes I reach my hands out far and feel her in the breeze
The trees bow down in solemn
For she is so far from me
Until up with a gust

She blows off..

Two tiny hands held strong
A gentle heart so warm (so soft!)
I saw myself in her today
Until she flew
My little brown moth
Gregory Dun Aer Feb 2017
I am a moth chasing a flame,
you're burning me every second-
but there's no second guessing
that I am drawn to you.
I am a moth chasing a flame,
I might crumble to ash and dust,
to nothing but charred remains,
yet I still won't ever change.
I am a moth chasing a flame,
like a desert chasing the rain,
like a cloud chasing a plane,
like a needle chasing a vein.

I am a moth chasing a flame.
The Master Corporal said to me
"I'm gonna do a show"
"Don't worry what I say to you"
"I just thought you should know"

Injured, badly two weeks gone
I was set to be held back
My knee was torn apart and
that, was not something I could hack

The day I was demoted
My Master Corporal came to me
He said "Turner, I hate to do this"
"But, it's for the best...you'll see"

I waited for inspection
With the others all on line
They were standing at attention
Me on crutches the whole time

"Turner, is there anything"
"That I should hate to find"
"Is there stuff inside your locker"
"of a non-military kind"

I stood there at attention
Waiting for the end to come
As he looked all through my kitting
Found dust upon my gun

He opened up the locker
And a moth came flying out
It flew past the Master Corporal
And then it danced upon his snout

The yell...was heard in England
"A pet...you've got a pet"
"Who said that you could have one?"
"It's not allowed...A PET"

The moth found the first window
flew back towards him once again
Left some moth dust on his beret
And he flew away right then

The Master Corporal's outrage
At being "mothed" by my new pet
Was one I don't think many
In our platoon would soon forget

He started throwing clothing
Chucking boots around the room
I knew it was all acting
But, those boots can really zoom

When finished he stood waiting
For a response, I stood and stared
I could not break out a smile
I had to show I didn't care

He moved on through the others
Looking for more moths on the way
But, that first one and it's face dance
Well, it surely made my day

He drove me to my barracks
Up to my new platoon
"I hope you liked my show today"
" I know I'll see you soon"

"Just do what you are ordered"
"And one thing don't forget"
"When you next have an inspection"
"Don't have an insect for a pet!!"

I remember fondly that last visit
He knew it hurt for me to leave
But, every word in here is truthful
You can choose to not or to believe.
This is a true story. I was challenged to write about a moth.....and I did.
I fell for you
like a moth to the light.
Moths die.
EmperorMoth Oct 2018
Maybe you don't really get it...
.
.
.
.
.
.
I am a ghost moth,
An ugly nothing,
And as I fly up,
I'm called disgusting,
However I know,
They cannot see Me,
Cause I'm a ghost moth,
An ugly nothing.

No one can see me,
They love pretending,
They all grow weary,
Now they are leaving,
There isn't a light,
That won't come stinging,
I'm all alone now...

No news that I see.

I cannot be squished,
Although I do wish,
I've seen my future,
There's nothing to miss,
I always yearn love,
Love does not yearn me,
Not the parent stuff,
More like romancing,
When will I get it,
I've been cursed and stung,
No light in my eyes,
I wish I were done.

You will find someone,
That helps my curse grow,
Like it works backward,
It reverses flow,
Tell me I'm lying,
I'm only crying,
Why can't I wake up,
It's worse than dying.

Now to the ending,
I want apathy,
Drowning my sorrows,
Numb in my sighing,
When the light does fade,
It will then get cold,
Wasted my one wish,
Dead young, I was told.

I do deserve this...
I feel so careless,
The moth that's like me,
Hope that you are bliss...
Anthony Smith Jun 2017
The moth flies in circles,
Forever distracted by the light.

Surely it must be the moon,
Telling it where to go.

Yet as long as it remains on,
The moth shall never escape.

For it is in the moth's nature
to always follow the light.

Until the time comes
that the moth is not but ash.
Eleanor Rigby Aug 2014
I come from darkness
And such as a moth
Beating itself
To death
Against a flame,
In your arms, I burn
Just the same.


F.Z.N
really


from moth ***** to moth beans
bouncing off the wall
shaking dust
off
whip-cream

she went crazy stare ing
at
light bulbs
she was
our
favorite moth

she planted
moth beans
?




















...
..
.
do you think
this is
too
...
..
.
i had a great big moth flying round the light
attracted by  bulbs that were very bright
flying round round as busy as can be
he was rather noisy and annoying me
so i got some hairspray to chase the moth away
but his wings went stiff  i am sad to say
this it made him quiet and from the light he fled
but he couldnt fly he had to glide instead
now the moth was quiet and couldnt fly no more
all that he could do was glide around the floor
Dhaye Margaux May 2014
Like a moth
blinded by such froth
wished to touch the flame.
Wrapped with swath
Burnt wings dropped the cloth
Time to take the blame...
A response poem to "Jack and Jill" of Ae.

— The End —