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Poem

On an old windowsill of a crooked windowpane in a beaten house
Lies a window-moth on a dirty window cloth.
drained, defeated, and done
Time and again,
It tattered its wings and shattered its face,
plunged at the glass, losing its grace.
She's drawn to a dim light
spilled through a cracked window
into the darkness of the room.
Like a waking terror of the night,
With one half there and the other out of sight.
Hallucinating a pathway through fantasy
  Seeking clarity in rays of insanity
Contained by a glass and wooden frame.
painfully numb, 
with an urge to move forward
A consuming obsession, 
to make it to the Moon.
That lambent orb in the skies
A brilliant ball full of lies
Ignorant to the impenetrable mass,
or the number of miles between the moon and glass.
No matter how much it desires,
No matter how much it tires,
No matter how large the power of will,
The glass is unbreakable,
the goal unattainable,
The truth unbearable.
The Godforsaken feeling,
of seeing, and believing,
yet never achieving.

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