Moth in the back of the Family Album
They take the powder, then leave.
Then circle back around for the wings.
They've stripped you of flight
turned you back into an insect
no hope to reach the yellowing light.
Before your last breath, they've already slanted the epitaph.
In the aftermath, there's no empathy.
No chance to speak or weave an alibi.
All good deeds downplayed or forgotten.
A nameless moth in the back of the family album.
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