shimmering undertones of a moth forever trapped beneath the streetlights.

picturing attachment to a pair of wings,
unnoticed in liberty and
feeling unsought in the air;
until the descent.


what is there to see
when there’s only two hues:
a negative brilliance
with positive dimness.

what is there to feel
in the rest of the day,
when night is made
sorrowful for the remainder.

what is it to hear
what’s supposed to be right
but, is only what’s left
to be said from the past.

what is it . . . to rise . . .
while being oblivious,
and, only to find
that it all was a ruse . . .

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