The Moth

What is mist in my demeanour, makes me fray when I am touched, the thread is just a little leaner, when the rug is pulled too much. Adjust the light, reduce the glare, the eyes will compensate the glow with just the right influx of air, the breath will gently ease its flow. Call from the candle, the patterned handle, generates the heat of light, and when it’s bare without a sandal the iron brands you in the night. Aware of the feast, release the craving, the best will save it in a jar, wearers might warn us by waving, when our engraving made its mark. A stark reality to territory, we covert the dark to rest, the part that sparks our own clarity, and every fight is but a test. Caressed the stretched out wing and body, the rack and ruin of a maiden flight, the pressed at best now torn and shoddy, unless the pest drifts to new heights. Despite the knit of what was woven, the proven cloth still dares to shred, the holes return to join the stolen, fitting to nourish on what was said.