My old soul is what I feature
Never asked a reason why
Never tried to doubt the nature
Only feel the urge to fly
I’m a metaphor you might
Recognize in times you follow
The trajectories of mind
In the dimness of tomorrow
When I’m tired of the flying
See me resting in the shade
Too much rest may equal dying
But I’m not at all afraid
I was born to find my light
Be it deep, or be it shallow
Flecks of sun, or moon at night
Lantern glimmer in the halo
I know that I must beware
Of the flame, but it’s a joke
I instinctively take care
From the turning into smoke
Only freedom is the cause
Of my little fragile life
Flying over, I take course
To whatever source of light..
How speedy yet sweet the swift
how slow and sleepy the sloth
how creepy crawly the caterpillar
metamorphosing into a moth
how flutters by the butterfly
how groaning grumbly the grouse
how caterwauly the cat
wailing at night outside the house
how snips when shears the snipe
how doggedly dogs the dog
how hops skips and jumps
the tadpole now a frog
how kicks and bucks the mule
shucks how dodges the duck
that's the lot it's all I've got
there's no more so you're in luck
Sphery moon o'er northern bog;
sphagnum working overtime.
Sphinx Moth moves within a grand
sphere of influence,
spherule eyes gazing. Keeps his
sphygmic pulse on time -- poised with
sphenic wings arched overhead.
a pale moth drifts through summer air~
soft wings aware of amber glare
that hums above the evening’s prayer;
it circles once, then disappears
Tell me, child, besides
Whose light your play lent
A rule, wise as twas benign-bent
Should we not farewell?
That drone, cello-like
Deeper noon's, which hour.
Whose own world of, in its honour
Insects', heard to swell.
drawn to lights brightness
he has found the end of life
dead on arrival
I am the storm that you chase
The blond tornado with stilettos red
You like my figure and pretty face
I could care less if you were dead
What is it about denim denial
That gives you such a ruby rush
Not equally yolked we fight wild
This is no ordinary lavender love
Lightening in my eyes doesn’t surprise
Reacting to teal thunder in your voice
We fuss and fight until one of us cries
Ending this seems the logical choice
But like a moth to golden flame
As a magnet I’m attracted by power
I have when I say your name
And the gifts for me you shower
I’m the one that got away in heart
Yet still stews in your mahogany mind
When we kiss there’s a silver spark
That no where else I can fuchsia find
Moth wings come by ...
Batting at the window screen,
To get in, they try and try
Where the light is seen
Afraid of the dark, are you?
Still, I cannot let you near,
No matter what you do
It is things like you I fear
Not that you can hurt me
Like a hornet when she stings,
I just do not want to be ...
Batted by soft, moth wings.
The fuzzy moth flits.
He hangs in the dark, dank night.
"Say... any candles?"
Nighthawk swoops and soars.
He scoops up tasty, fat moths.
He dances at dusk.
Fanged hairy spider
waiting in your deadly web.
Look! A tasty moth!
Butterfly? Moth? Faerie? Dragonfly?
Bee? Wasp? Hornet? Damselfly?
Lithe and light, gliding quickly by
in and out of flowers insanely high
Termites? Beetles? Honeybees?
They flit and flutter as they please
One has glided off on a northern breeze.
These flying things bring lots of ease.
>center>In the blinding light
or blinkered dark,
a moth navigates
this alien world
by its own shadow.>center>
There is something that is almost love
The artist's call to capture an existence, symmetrical and pure.
It is magnetic and yearning
prying open my chest cavity and rearranging the vital organs to make a home for itself.
I almost love him.
I do not; it is but a trick of the light falling across his cheekbones
A muse that sculptors would've envied
Yet my heart quickens, seduced by the imperative to interpret such beauty
I am not a moth to a flame
I am a muralist to a whitewashed wall
A composer in a quiet room
A sonnetist to a blank page
but then the moment fractures, its fragile potentials
puddling back into reality once more.
the moths seem duller
the butterflies are bright
the moths are plain
polka dots adorn the butterfly
the luna moth is enormous
she makes the monarch seem small
the butterflies love the flowers
moths go after my curtains, eating holes in them
yesterday I saw a dark black butterfly
I followed it around, suspecting it might eat me
but it went for the zinnias
so, I knew I was incorrect; it was a butterfly.
Not a moth.
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