A Moth
My heart is a moth, trapped in its cocoon.
Held fast by the strings and strands of natural course.
Wings that could unfurl, lie curled,
Close to my body, empty of blood.
I am the monk of night, the holy man of the dark morning,
But my mantra is of deep and quiet notes,
Sub-sonic in the pines, rumbling at the frequency of love.
The beads of my prayers are spun of her words,
and I cannot count them slowly, nor quickly enough.
I am dreaming her, between dusk and nightmare,
And she is so real I can almost, nearly, no...
I could paint her for you, but what pigment could live up to that eye,
What stroke that cheek, what brush that hollow?
I could show you her image, reflected in the back of my eyes,
Reversed, reassembled, rearranged with loving care,
But you would see only her beauty, her form, her shine.
You would miss her laughter at the slightest jest,
Her caress in passing that would mean nothing to you
But is everything beautiful in my day.
You would miss her wonder, her power, her breath after she sighs,
The flicker of lust, flashing like summer lightning,
Through eyes the color of sea, sage and steel.
I cannot remain silent, mute, standing on this bridge between,
Madness and devotion, and her name is...
You would miss her sadness, at being a moth...
Copyright © Lance Cheuvront | Year Posted 2007
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