The Moth

It's hot and clammy and dark
With a strange stillness before a storm,
When I stood near the naked lamp
Trying to chase a dream.
The overcast bustle above the ether,
The pale grey hue that the moon painted
At the edge of the gathering clouds,
And the unending quarantined phase
Of my life has once again,
Gathered the unescapable clouds in me
And distorted my face.
But then came a frail voice
Of some fragile wings of a moth,
That came near the candle
Perhaps chasing it's light.
I suddenly realised that
It's the fire that attaracts the moth
Giving them a reason
To fly high or even far........
And too far than our reach.
And it's the fire that sends them
To the depth of despair,
Or reducing them into ashes!
For a while I became a moth
When I saw a pair of fragile wings
Growing fast from behind.
I too felt my passion towards the light,
But it's the inside one in me
And I called it the light of dreams.
I flew an uncountable time
Soaring higher than usual to chase it.
And like the fire in this physical realm
It too burned my wings to ashes
And I fell with my face.
But my soul of a moth
Is still inside and as it overhauls,
Once again it tries to flap
The vanished wings to mend the past.
Now, I point my broken hands above the sky
And think about the butterflies
Sucking nectar in the day.
But as I' ve became
A nocturnal flightless creature,
I ooze out a paroxysm of sobs for a pair
Of vanished wings,
And watch the fast fading light
With the storm,
That is heading to destroy.