• Your neighbourhood poet


An encircled flame the colour of descent

And smelling like pared-down wine, seeks

To nourish all that is devoid of winter warmth. All

But the moth.

The moth is an unfinished creature. A wingless beast

At first, rapidly recursing into primitive

Appeal, then disappearing as an inkblot

On the face of time itself. It is birthed

Of night’s longest hour, the lonely eclipse between

Fissure-laid dawn and the screaming darkness beyond.

When it flies willingly into the nascent arms of death; when,

With the fervour of grass-gilded wind, it tries

To penetrate the glass, it will fail. The moth

Is fed on paper dreams.

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