On an old windowsill of a crooked windowpane in a beaten house
Lies a window-moth on a ***** window cloth.
drained, defeated, and done
Time and again,
It tattered its wings and shattered its face,
plunged at the glass, losing its grace.
She's drawn to a dim light
spilled through a cracked window
into the darkness of the room.
Like a waking terror of the night,
With one half there and the other out of sight.
Hallucinating a pathway through fantasy
  Seeking clarity in rays of insanity
Contained by a glass and wooden frame.
painfully numb,
with an urge to move forward
A consuming obsession,
to make it to the Moon.
That lambent orb in the skies
A brilliant ball full of lies
Ignorant to the impenetrable mass,
or the number of miles between the moon and glass.
No matter how much it desires,
No matter how much it tires,
Nor thee amount of blood she taranpires,
The glass is unbreakable,
the goal unattainable,
The truth unbearable.
The Godforsaken feeling,
of seeing, and believing,
yet never achieving.

she gravitated toward knowledge

much like

the moth to a flame,

and the flame that knowledge was,

it burned her

Everything my heart desires is either too far for my arms to reach or too hot for my fingers to touch;
But like a moth to a flame, I move towards it even as it consumes me.