moths

the stars eclipsed by the
flutter of paper wings, the
smell of burning ichor.

they come out at night,
at night, every night,
spreading dust and dread and
dying, dying,
a brigade charging at the light,
for some sick and sour craving.

heaps and heaps of them,
littering the streets and
choking the city, possessed
of unresisted urges,
the thirst for light, their desire
to shortcut this night
no matter the path

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