Defined by its fatal desire for more-

Antennae ragged, blackened with the bright

And white-hot kernel at the candle’s core,

This soft-winged, heat-drunk warrior of light,

Charmed and enflamed by phototaxic lust

Re-gathers all its primitive life force

To smash its quivering body to grey dust

In its addiction-led, predestined course.

And just like them, though my own wing tips burn,

With junkie-esque predictability-

To your relentless, boiling sun I turn,

Flying towards destruction willingly.

Ash in my hair, my mouth, my bleeding eyes,

Dying to live within your fire the prize.


Polly Oliver -2018


Photo by Egor Kamelev from Pexels


One thought on “Moth – a sonnet

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