the moth is my heart
the moth is grey, speckled with gold dust.
its tired wings flap to the beat of an invisible drum.
it bounds against a cage of glass, the worst kind,Â
for a whole world of freedom can easily be seen through hooded eyes.
bit by bit, the wings start tearing.
cracks form and the golden shimmers fall to the ground.
now all that remains is the grey.
if I squint, the small moth could be a swirl of ash, momentarily forming a shape in its flurry to heaven.
the glass cage has melted, but there is no winged creature left to escape from it.