Bristles, glide delicately...
over cold refuse.
Random bits,
of detritus:
and your broom devours them,
indiscriminate
a placidly lurking monster,
with an unchoosy palette.
It's almost a mindless,
shuffling dance,
with failure, for a willing partner,
while regret, lingers sulkily,
in a dark corner of the room,
and watches the two of you
locked,
in a very forced
minuet.
The world feels like it's over,
and every brush stroke, feels
like its own humdrum ending.
Then,
all at once,
when you least expect it, to
your agitated trash ,
lifts its papery little wings,
takes flight,
and flutters gently away,
in a storm of linen,
beige, and white.
The faintest flicker of hope,
rises, from the discard pile:
a wildcard moth
seeking its own, besotted flare,
of quavering torchlight.
This literally came about, because I was sweeping the floor, thinking about this old drawing of a woman who accidentally sweeps away part of her own shadow, and, while daydreaming, my "trash" kept escaping the broom bristles. What I assumed was persistent, papery garbage were really just very aggravated moths.
