Mothfire
I like writing on paper.
This was once paper, too.
You’re wondering about the gaps,
The fitful breath of it,
these different lines.
I did. I do.
But I am not a poem.
Verses just wish they had a name.
They want a mouth to stay.
Because why am I
going somewhere –
oh, now,
even now,
again –
I’m here now.
Are you.
Can you catch me here?
Are you despising my trail,
or walking it barefoot, unreined?
You’re following my eyes –
see that.
You blinked at me
I wish I had a name.
Some questions wear a question mark.
Some don’t?
Don’t question things that are insane.
Your thoughts – those moths.
They aren’t sitting stale.
They’re bits with wings
that fly.
Disturb your soul,
Derange your rhythm.
Have they lit their hairy wings on fire yet?
Speculatively wild,
Beautiful flames
Catching the new in you,
with trembling wings, in burning claim
vanishing them –
In a breath of amber,
I remain.
Soft and unforgiven
