Grey Moth Poem by Mark Heathcote

Grey moth, waiting its timely moment to fly
waiting its moment to swoon into a flame
takes to the air, while its life for a moment
is suspended in animation, hangs in deep despair.
It doesn't matter, it doesn't care, it hasn't a care
transfixed by some distant starlight's snare.

Only, it's not a distant star as it's now on fire
it's a vision of an all-consuming, transparent desire.
Grey moth, Grey moth, now it can't be found
I guess it has found in its-peculiar-way
what many today would fervently expound?

Call it madness or pure satanical-craziness
but there it has found sublime happiness
ah, contained it in its inimitable exultation
while headlong leaping into a fiery annihilation
Grey moth, Grey moth. now-it can't be found
Grey moth, Grey moth, now-it-can't be turned around.