shimmering undertones of a moth forever trapped beneath the streetlights

picturing attachment to a pair of wings,
unnoticed in liberty,
feeling unsought in the air;
until the descent.
what is there to see
with only two hues:
a negative brilliance
a positive dimness.

what is there to feel
in the rest of the day,
when night is made
sorrowful for the remainder.

what’s it to hear
what's supposed to be right
but, is only what's left
to be said from the past.

what is it to rise . . .
while being oblivious,
only to find . . .
that it all was a ruse

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