That which draws the moth

Bart Wolffe


That which draws the moth to the flame is not

The light but the overwhelming omen, darkness,

In which obliteration blind men seek to escape,

To see the haloed streetlamp dreaming

Through a fog when cataracts diffuse sight

As searching for the invisible passenger

Who has departed memory

The hearse of darkness hides its curtained cargo.

Yet observe the cold exhaust, smoke and steam,

Engine underneath whose voice is subterfuge,

It is waiting on the edge of now,

A sign, an augury of endings come to all of us,

Such opaque glass hides the dreadful truth inside.

Only know that as this effacing mist embraces edges

The clarity of thoughts dissipate and go

And men are swallowed by forgetfulness,

Lines rubbed out beneath the black anonymity of snow.

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