The Moth
There is a moth, ugly and unique,
that flutters in my mind and doesn’t let me sleep.
I twist and turn; the skies change their colours.
Time flies by; I wake up at hours unknown.
and I weep.
There is nothing left of me.
I have shed everything that runs under the skin of me.
The mind cannot rest.
The body is too tired to walk or preach about me.
I laugh, I breathe, I adorn people.
Like the rest of the days are a maze.
But the moth doesn’t let me sleep.
It flutters, it wreathes, it clings to my soul.
It doesn’t leave.
It flutters and flutters and flutters inside of me.
For many years it has clung to my soul.
It is the moth or I that cannot survive.
I know not; I twist and turn.
I lie.
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It is a part of me.
as I am a part of it, of me.
I twist and turn and lie and weep.
And scream and scratch and throw away
and burn.
I burn the papers that are a waste.
I turn and turn; I burn.
But nothing can understand or explain.
This pain of days and nights,
This pain of days and nights.
I have suffered with this fluttering moth.
No words come to me.
No philosophy can explain,
No words come to me.
There is something that makes me wonder.
Where did I catch this ray?
I plead and plead and plead.
But it’s not enough, I pray.
I weep and plead for it to stop.
I plead and plead and weep.
Something is compelling.
Instructing me to pull myself
and live another day.
But how long will this winter last?
How long will the autumn stay?
