Monochrome Attic

Why do moths go to die in the darkest holes?

In corners, in dust, I find their carcasses.

In all the world

And all its vastness,

They choose the mold

To breathe their last breaths.

At best they’re mistaken as

Butterfly doppelgängers,

Fluorescent doom draws them to

Make natural light a stranger.

As moth dust is moved

From wing,

To leg,

To face,

The moth will wonder,

If a butterfly

Could ever take its place;

Mistake pollen for dust;

Forsake the Sun’s trust,

Redesign its cocoon case.

While the latter has color to plunder

Moths reign the dust of roofs I write under.