The moth, she knows the flame will burn
But back again, again she comes,
Her velvet collisions dress the air,
Sparkling against these tempting embers
Where she throws herself over and over
Upon the most flickering of fascinations,
Such senseless self-immolation 
Strips her to a carapace, 
Leaving her scorched, naked, undressed, undone, 
Beneath the tragic unravelling of her world.

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She, born of the forge and cast from the pyre,
The fire of her birth soon vanished to iron,
Cold and lifeless, but still with a purpose
And then, from the worthless womb of coals
She falls.

Her sisters, countless in their tumble
Collide and stumble to the four corners
Of the earth.  Rapidly consumed
Exhumed for a thousand years
Or perhaps two…

Here she, in the wood of ...

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