Cynthia

Always the artist, never the art Always the poet, never the poem Always the writer, never the muse Always the singer, never the song Always the photographer, never the photo Always the medicine, never the cure.

Moths to a flame In the stillness of the night   When the moon and stars are dim   The Moths begin their silent fight   As the sun isn't there to orient their flight   Artificial light sources now dominate the night sky   Eyes on the pole with a glowing light.   They circle closer to it, mesmerized,   By the false sun, in the darkened skies.   The light shines bright, they found it as thier beacon of hope  in the endless night While trying to cope with the darkness they forget their nightly quest,   To find food and shelter and to take some rest.   They dance around in a fake embrace   Fluttering in their own deceptive grace   Their false sun slowly takes their life   Yet they stay with false happiness, for which their hearts still sway.   In that light, they see their sun,   A lost hope, a battle they think they’ve won   Addicted to its warmth and glow,   Their hearts believe in what they used to know Even when their fragile wings start to burn   They are drawn to the flame   Knowingly playing a dangerous game.   They fall to the ground, their journey complete,   Victims of a light, they could never defeat.   The world around them goes unnoticed, unseen,   The grass, the flowers, the trees which were so green.   Yet in its grasp, their heart are intertwined.   Holding on to what once was real,   Trying to ignore the wounds that never heal.    Even while Knowing the end, they are unable to part,   They stay, trapped in a hopeless heart.