Dear moths, you never second-guess yourselves.

You smolder in the glow of attraction,

serene as your bodies ignite,

drawn from the cold, the dank and the dark

to the promise of heat and light.

I flinch at the crackle of flame,

embers extinguished, solemn-faced,

never quite lost in the blaze. 

I want to be more like you, the moths.

You flit into fire,

wings burning to ash,

spindling, spiraling,

choking and dying,

an avoidable death but

you keep on burning

and burning again.

Your sisters and brothers

come by flutter and wing.

Drown in fire, 

a quiet retire,

to the warmth and the sear

of the bonfire.

You kill for the feeling,

that illusion of healing

whatever is broken inside.

Pretty creature of the night,

fire dancer burning bright,

in the smoke and the heat

the persistent light,

for a love more than love,

and a life more than life.