The Moth ©
The lamp is lit as shadows fall,
and quiet echoes down the hall,
Fill the ear with wonderment,
but be still and be content.
Ere the moon is risen yet,
the sun in a bloody bath has set.
And vainly fluttering as in a trance,
the moth continues it's merry dance.
Up and down outside the glass,
then back again another pass.
The shadows flit against the wall,
and make the moth a monster tall.
But the glass is hot and hits the wing,
the end of flight for this night-time thing.
On the ground or in the gutter,
departs this life with one last flutter.