THE MOTH

The moth mistakes the lamp for dawn

and circles still when hope is gone.

I watch and wonder if I’m too

chasing lights that won’t shine enough.

I walk through the fog without a map,

a name, a face, a fading gap,

not quite lost yet never found,

forever searching hollow ground.

The stars look painted, cold and far,

unreachable in what they are,

and all I want, beneath the sky,

is not the how, the when, or why?

just the one clear truth to call my own,

Before the dark becomes my home.