VII. The Moth and the Flame

The moth moves silent, drawn to fire,

its wings of dusk, its heart’s desire.

It circles close, then veers away,

a hidden hunger kept at bay.

The flame burns bright, but does not chase,

it waits within its guarded place.

The moth returns, again, again,

its longing masked in shadow’s skin.

And I, too, circle what I seek,

my yearning cloaked, my courage weak.

I wear the mask of calm control,

while ash collects inside my soul.

Yet even ash remembers flame,

the ember whispers still my name.

Desire hides, but never dies—

it wears the dark, it veils its cries.

The moth confides what I must claim:

I am both shadow, and the flame.