My Dying Moth

Do pray with me my dying moth for we are not forgiven yet, till we don't shed the silken cloth and both our wings to fire set. Do pray for me while you are there, inside your grief our holy land, how can I for redemption care! While my own touch the sinking sand. Still pray, for life is short and ill, can't empty minds the gardens find, I might not my transgressions kill, while praise the earth that burns my kind. But you are ill and cannot fly, like a beggars eye do you bargain; a day, a life, why do you try and go through the forsaken pain. If pray you must, do pray for me, have yet to earn my deepest sin, though a creature wise you cannot see a moment through the human skin. Please pray, as once had for life prayed in the calmest of your timeless age, we paint our stay with our own shade and in this blank find all the rage. Pray with those burnt out wings so pure, and ask for me the holy balm, that does to men the sense restore, but to this man the senseless calm. Do pray as I will die one day, until that day I cannot live, just dream that you may live to pray, and to my moth a purpose give. R.N Khan 2014