Poem-A-Day: Day 201

Mothballs

There was a moth on the ceiling today.

I watched it fly around the room
as if it was lost,
or had some sort of agenda,
but it just flew around
avoiding the fan that spun;
a circling guillotine
waiting to take the head of the moth
and drop it in a tiny basket;
a waste basket.

There was a moth on the ceiling today.

I watched it as it landed on the ceiling
after spending the previous twenty minutes
exploring a miniature landscape,
after it ventured close to the sun,
and avoided the spinning death
that wailed its siren call,
after it had spent the moments before demise
cheating death, scamming death,
watching me, as I had watched it.

There was a moth on the ceiling today.

I approached it slowly
and watched as it scurried
over the white painted setting in reverse,
and the moth watched me
as I approached slowly
with the vessel of death in my hand;
a coffin in the shape of a shoe.
My hand was the arm of the devil
wailing down in upward strokes.

There was a moth that was kneeling to pray.