moths
She keeps moth wings in jars,
fragile things pressed against glass
like broken promises.
She says they’re beautiful,
even in their ruin.
I ask her why she collects
what’s already dead,
and she just shrugs,
says it’s not about life—
it’s about remembering
what it felt like to fly.
Copyright © Shay Storey | Year Posted 2025
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.
Please
Login
to post a comment