Moths Before The Moon

Forward we crawl, cognizant of our joys, anxieties and preoccupations, seldom giving fate a chance; we swirl in an ever-tightening circle of unappreciated, minute fragments we assimilate into the marrow of our lives. Pacing the end of ecstasy, bleed in layers, through the pain, through the blooms and surges, burst to awaken forlorn, changed beyond measurement.

Controlling nothing, feeling the embers of burnt offerings spent on deities uncaring, but stardust sprinkled upon dissected tales told to elevate our emptiness beyond the sludge of perceived expectations. A leaf caught in the maelstrom of reality, utterly dependent on vast forces uncontrollable by the bearer of precious forget-me-nots and playful kisses. Furious at the truth of our opening crescendo, riding down the monster that looms before the child, fear not we have glimpsed beyond the wall; behold cloaked behind veils and heavy curtains, the mind's eye.

The end saturated in the striations of purity that only the light angled just before breaking could pierce. Perceptions, often vented on the morning after nights of sweaty heaves, rush headlong into the depths of unrequited praise. Expending reguritated energies sprung forth from the bosom of passions and hopes, we fret alone under the covers of made beds.

Vast are the waters where hide yesterday and her helpers, tomorrow and today, the holy liquid of memory, aides in the sanitized retelling of chosen epitaphs. We are but moths before the moon, never reaching the ever-present glow of true understanding, ever in flight, ever alone in our plights.