Fine Silk Spun With Gold Poem by Mark Heathcote

Folded moth wings placed together in prayer
open to discover the moon and starlit air
in madness flap, circle my heart
and like a curtain, take little bites at my soul.

But what can they discover - there!
My heart isn't threaded spun with gold.
And my soul isn't made of fine-silk
I'm just like the moon lost in this black ink.

With folded hands at night, I am locked-in sleep.
I dream and pray to fly away
Indeed-there-are no limits to the madness I seek.
I even have the freedom to fly.

In madness flap, circle the light in a distant sky.
My prayers are never-more-spoken
as I draw back a curtain, which reveals a fine-silk
-spun with gold in madness, desires even my soul.