Moth

June 13, 2013 at 10:01 pm (history, literature, philosophy, Poems, poetry, Stories) (attic, inspiration, moths, the past, thoughts, treasures)

Attic ulating, up the words I climb
in slippered undulating rhyme and
stop, unlock the heavy door, a key
to sticky notes before, and there
in chests the best are laid, the odd
and old and folded, saved, unsaid
they fester in the gloom, their spell
a chrysalis too soon. Ah what to take
and plunder? Through asundered parts
I blunder, scattering pasts in tissue
screams, all tip and topple, broken
dreams in dust and dappled light are
held again, and one, it might not
be a pretty thing, will be a moth
and from my midnight pen take wing.

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