Have you perished, little Death Faced Moth?
Face upturned in rictus
How the divining of your immolation looks
How quiet the window, now your incessant knock is forfeit
Do we lay down as stealthily, with urgent murmur?
And finding our grave awaiting, sleep the long sleep?
I think we fight against such fates my little one, I believe
We spend our entirety seeking some other divination
Than the rinse of dirt and perishment, cloying our dreams
For we are restless, urging creatures given over to acts
Of cruelty, of splendor
And in those shallow epochs dear Death Faced Moth
From our very start in cradle
It is my belief we turn our milk curded heads, ripe with life
Face away from dying like the weed seeks one inch of soil
To rise, unexpected and flourishing
Never ever succumbing, till the bell tolls beyond our hour
Then I fear we fight our fate as ocean labors against moon
An exultant madness it is, a far flung spice, the heart of
A wild thing, galvanizing her feral heart to savage end
For no unbound passion be greater than
This breathing insanity, this gorgeous spoil.
5 Replies to “This gorgeous spoil”
Oh, fight our fate we do
and deny extinguishment
with stories of a life eternal
we imagine a thousand thousand
ways of dying, all sorts
heroic or debased
painless or in torment
honorable or shamed
sudden or slow
but to imagine being dead
that is beyond us
to be sure, we can imagine
our body being found
or grieved over
but not our self evaporated
to be no more,
as before conception
we were not
whether we go gentle
or protesting onto
that good night
we go with illusions
This is a very powerful piece.
Thank you very much dear one 💜
I love “a far flung spice”. It captures so much more than piquancy. There’s history and geography there, genealogy and rootlessness. But above all magic. 🖤
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