The Moth

The Moth

The pale moon rises, bathed in milk
Touching shadows softly, whispering silk
The black sky stares onto endless, dark night
Lit by the moons incandescent light
And slowly she wakes in her silken confines
A rebirth into the dark world of dark times

Fevered sweat forms upon her pale brow
As she wakes to remember and lives to find sorrow
Her beings completion has fast been achieved
From this dark prison her body is conceived

She stretches her form, no longer a mesh
Of animal changing, of intertwined flesh
And frees herself slowly, creeps out from within
Her soul is exposed to the darkness of sin

Her body is drenched with the juices of life
From which she was born, into which she shall die
And reveals her sweet beauty unto the crude place
So undeserving of her shining face

She spreads her out her dusty wings, gray as the Ash
Of the flame once forgotten, a silver white sash
Streaked across her plain body reveals not so much
Her wings powdery surface, so lovely to touch

But the pale moon is dying and sets in the sky
Turning red as it leaves and she turns off to fly
Swiftly and slow through the soundless clear night
To hide from the coming, to hide from the light

She must save her body and save her soul-torn
From the light of the morning, the death of the dawn.