A Moth's Lament

I sought the hearth's embrace once more, Though blistered hands recalled before. Its flickering light, both kind and cruel, Still held me fast, a willing fool. For in the glow, a comfort stayed, A fleeting balm, though poorly made. Its heat had scorched, its embers burned, Yet to its blaze, I still returned. The cinders whispered, soft, beguiled, "Stay near - where else, dear, runs the wild?" And though the pain was sharp and true, It felt like homes, as homes will do. But the home that wound and took its due, Was hollow walls where cold winds blew. And so I stood, the choice in hand, To quench the fire or let it stand. For love can heal, or love can maim, And we the moths, the fractured flame. Yet even moths must learn to flee, When fire forgets its warmth to be.