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The Moth.

On the ground,
sprawled out
like a thrown rag doll
in a ever-growing pool
of rich red, eyes

aching, a hand
extended, trembling fingers
that seem to blur

all but her voice
desperately
crying for help.

No. Stop. Let 
her bleed out.
Give her time
to dry out.

You see her strength,
let it rise within her, dominate.

To help moths
escape their cocoon
by wielding the aiding blade
is counterproductive.

Don’t leave her too weak
to survive.

Sympathy conveys
all that you
believe yourself
to be above,

better than. Behind
seeming abandonment

there hides
love, obscured
only by shallow
vision, superficial
conception:

the limits
of those too pussy
to penetrate
the wall,

gnaw through the thick,
silk web-work.

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