The Fate Of A Moth Poem by Daniel Y.

A moth flies blindly. Running into walls. It fleas in desperate panic
to seek a darkened corner.
I ask myself if the creature can think of anything more than what is basic
for its survival.
How little else could have any room or sway. How necessary those little things are.
And yet its missing the grand reflection. Does it philosophize of right and wrong?

Flailing about the slight currents of a cold morning.
I reach out to touch this symbol-
Brittle like antique glass.
It turns to ash,
dull white with dusty glow.