THe moth

In starlight came a fluttering, faltering, faint and quiet sound

As in an open sky a flicker heard but sight of eye not found-

On midnight hours such as this a moth finds peace at mind and ease

Its life brought forth so free as flickering aghast the slight and sudden breeze

It dips and dives and flaunts its wings, and with rushing beat of heart

Between its indomitable thrashing wings the darkened dim and dreary night shall part

And as it trembles toward the dimming light that others shan’t notice there

The moth meets home as it drifts and putters and floats upon uplifting air

To others thought but nothing more than a parsimonious peasant reprehensible

None the less in its own heart it remains to be chivalrous and sensible

It flourishes stately in the sky, only but wishing to speak its mind

To tell stories of visions from above-a view of life others cannot yet seem to find

But held at tongue the moth appears, although yearning and desiring to speak-

All silence but sound of tapping on light; the moth remains too weak

So merely does this moth sit quaint and blithe in open air of full

To acquiesce its destiny yet to covet more than just to be lamentable

Why is it here that such a creature is set a course instead of its own way?

Can it not profess its thoughts? Its visions? Who knows what it would say.

For no one listens to such a small and meager creature; to such a dull-drawn race-

Therefore Its message shall linger in its thoughts, and of ours there shall not be a trace.