Moths Poem by Rod M.Peters

In this land of perennial mists
That cast a shroud over all forms
Plunging them in the languid torpor
Of a long wintry dream,
We fly towards the golden orb,
Those who once were moths,
Hoping to reach the brighter flame
Before it shipwrecks in a pond of curdled milk
And drowns its faint glow.
Do not ever pity the humble moth…

Below, the shadow of the fox
Chases after the shadow of the hare
And the shadows of men labor to catch
The shadow of a golden bird,
But we chose to sail through the thinner air,
Our dragonfly wings whispering
Iridescent words,
Our dusklight-bathed bodies tensed,
Quivering, like arrows in midflight.

Few know of our dying wish,
When the cycle of human toiling
Expired; of how the boon is given
To the weary soul, if the job is done:
The choice to come back as a humble moth
So as to plunge towards the searing flame
And allow the fiery scissors
To cut loose the stubborn thongs.
Of how the weariest traveler
Finally shuns away from the late hug
Of a warm and humid earth
And the company of the greedy worm
And chooses to close the circle,
Breaking away in a tangent of light
Shot towards the warmer sphere.
Do not ever pity the humble moth…

Having awoken from such fleeting slumber
Slept at the bottom of flame's luminous well,
Now with an iridescent body,
Rejuvenated limbs infused with strength
And two pairs of glimmering dragonfly wings,
(Left behind are the ashes
Of lackluster mothwings)
To re-stage the archetypal flight, once more,
In a subtler realm of fleeting forms,
Headed towards a stronger fire,
Has finally cut the Gordian knot
And dissolved the ultimate qualm:
Yes, there is a poetic, lucid thread
Stringing the beads of Fate;
No, not the tale of a mad god
Dragging the shackles of his solitude.