The Pity of Moths

 

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Do we,
all of us
with the black dog that roams the mind, that,
like a jinx, snaps at bright thoughts;
do we
sit in darkness out of pity of moths?

And if not,
why flatter Oblivion;
why dress His crown with more
Obsidian jewels?

You rob yourself of your ashes.

We,
all of us,
who’s thoughts creep like some dark vine;
winding us to the end in every second.
Us,
for who this flower
was plucked straight from a grave.

 

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