Just a moth
drawn to the porch light
again. Such mad fluttering,
narrowed tunnel vision.
Saw the light
though it blinded him.
Still maintaining the frantic rhythm
of his violent, vain attempts at surrender,
slamming his body against the bulb
until, at last, it will consume him.
Not one moth made it.
None have been able to break it
and in a rain of powder and glass
to tango with the filaments
that would send them sizzling
Even success here is failure.
He cannot play this stupid game.
Still, he plays with the idea
and that is much the same thing.
Orbiting the bulb again,
seduced, entranced and closing in.
He feels so warm and wanted,
keeps his fucking distance.