I was a moth.
Drawn to your flame, yet unable to get close without feeling the searing pain you’d inflict upon me each time.
And yet, I could never stay away.
However,
there came a time in which I learned to instead bask in the sweet nectar of another.
And it was then that I finally became appealing to you.

An evening breeze
.....blows by......you obey,
........and move your lithe body
you sway left.... right...up and down

giving in to the blowing whispers,
...the breath of fire...that starts the dance
your pride of red-yellow-orange,
..........rises.........then falls......
do you know
that you brighten, dim, and glow?
dilating the pupils, rousing the mind even more...
your changing colors, your fiery, wavy movements
blind...and hypnotize.........bringing back to life
dormant desires...of one, entranced...captivated...
........i am lured..........i am tempted...
..................i am here...to dance with you,...
........enfold me...while you're ablaze......
....................singe me......i'd take the heat,
            ...........for....i am your,
                              ...........moth.......


Sally


Copyright May 6, 2017
Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan

Lawrence Hall
[email protected]

The Luna Moth

The moon does not in fact wax anything,
She does not wane; she simply ever-is;
She rules the softly-sung, soft-summer nights,
A willing queen, and willingly obeyed.
The luna moth, her winged votary,
Clings to indulgent oaks of their kindness,
Their moon-sent goddess from another world,
And strangely robed and crowned in lunar green,
Pheroming softly for some other moth
To come perform with her those rituals
Of love illogical, of sacrifice;
For all a luna moth can do is live
A summer week or so, but in those hours

She loves

In lunar beauty, strangely eternal
Who needs a dying luna moth?
                                                We do.

Lawrence Hall
[email protected]

The Luna Moth

The moon does not in fact wax anything,
She does not wane; she simply ever-is;
She rules the softly-sung, soft-summer nights,
A willing queen, and willingly obeyed.
The luna moth, her winged votary,
Clings to indulgent oaks of their kindness,
Their moon-sent goddess from another world,
And strangely robed and crowned in lunar green,
Pheroming softly for some other moth
To come perform with her those rituals
Of love illogical, of sacrifice;
For all a luna moth can do is live
A summer week or so, but in those hours

She loves

In lunar beauty, strangely eternal
Who needs a dying luna moth?
                                                We do.

flying now erratic circles
I'm the moth who didn't flee
glutinous tongue of careless wind
caught me in a single lick
pulling inexorably into the opening
through the lid ajar I went
above the window sill
and straight into the eyes
of a room clad in light

it's turning warm to hot as I orbit closer
and closer still to the ceiling deity
I came in from the wide open void
I came in from the purposeless
the great free emptiness
where skies were grey and cold
I came in to embrace the bright frail sun transparently imbued
with the gift of gods

I pledge my wings to you
though charred into disfigured trails like brush strokes on some
impressionist painting

No longer are you transparent
no longer am I winged
and for a split-second in suspended animation
it was worth it ten times over

Moths—they are nearly all comprised of the same tender characteristics: empty colors that've somehow been ****** away like the nectar they digest, fuzzy abdomens that crumble within the softest pinch, and powder encrusted wingspans that fray with countless beatings from the wind. I have come to recognize that there are people like Her who dwindle within themselves among all of us, unheard; enthralled by color that doesn't exist to the naked eye, but rather to an imaginative mind and a battered soul. She is The Moth Girl and she, too is the epitome of simpler things. With Her fair skin and enchanting, grey eyes that **** you in with a single glance; lips so chapped and brittle that they're nearly as drained of pigment as the rest of her. I've decided that She is the reason oblivion hasn't doomed us all and obliterated our world to dust. I've imagined Her as oblivion itself, annihilating other galaxies and collecting the discolored soot from each explosion to sift it over the wings of every moth that has ever been criticized. With this, I have concluded that every moth must be a victim.
⠀
But, if given the chance, would they transfigure?
⠀
I've undergone the thrill of witnessing these moths revolutionize into harlequin humming birds that thrive at Her will. Wings that were once littered with dust are now far too rapid and swift for manifestation. The Moth Girl — She remains a flower of a woman, though now She is sprouting with petals that burst with color; filled with nectar sweeter than She. They are all rich with vibrancy.
⠀
With it, they have concluded that it's not much different being evocative.
⠀
After everything, I have decided that they were blooming with color all along, and it was the rest of us that simply couldn't see it.

Somethings are easier to explain than most.
But what gets me is that everyone fails to mention what happens to the moth after the flame is extinguished.
The sorrow that escapes through the air as black smoke.
The burning smell of a wick sweltering in the remains of liquid wax.
Soon to harden as if nothing has happened.
And the moth, forever left with it's essence
Soon left alone, blinded.
Not knowing which way to go