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.

4 Replies to “This gorgeous spoil”

  1. 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

Leave a Reply

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.