The love of the moth for the deadly flame
Has long been pondered by many a man;
The moth ridiculed and mocked and scorned,
For the endless passion it has for its doom.
Never has anyone asked themselves...
What the silly moth might see when it stares
Deep into the heart of the shimmering flames;
That makes it crave their fiery embrace?
For though the flames burn hot and bright,
They keep many secrets of their own;
As dark as the dancing shadows they cast
To warn the wise and lure the fool.
Though flames be pretty and warm and alive,
Cackling with untethered joy and zeal
Yet they consume all those who dare
Presume to think themselves their match.
And though the blaze may bear the moth none,
Of ill will or hate or spite or rage
The flames will always ravage and raze
And the moth will always lose that game.
What makes you yearn for death, oh moth?
Do you truly hate yourself this much?
For you to choose to be enthralled
By what you know will bring your end?
I like to think that there is more
To this painful story than it may seem...
Could it be a tale of passion and love?
Could it be true that the moth knows more?
Perhaps the moth fully knows the risks
And made his peace with death and pain
For he well knows that without the flames,
Life would be too dark to live.
And before he burns; by God he’ll live...
The passion in his eyes as scorching hot
As the dazzling flames at which he stares
And where he knows his journey ends.
And while his fate he’s always known,
He also knows he’ll never doubt
Or have regrets about this flame;
The best mistake he’d ever make.
So save your tears for when he dies,
And let the moth enjoy the dance...
For though he ends his life ablaze,
He wouldn’t have it any other way.
