Moth

Frantically, frantically, flying directless
your life's just too short and you'll die on your own.
At home in the dust, pulled in by the lightbulbs
poor little thing, you've only just grown.

The runt of the pack, you lack all the colours
that butterflies hold in their beautiful arms.
That doesn't matter, there's beauty in everything
even the dead leaves of Autumn hold charm.

So as you flit around in your random selectiveness
no obvious path and your time running out.
Do you have reason in your distracted pursuit?
searching for someone to figure you out.

Your losing the beat to your wings that are slowing
your growing so tired of searching alone.
So take one last look, peer from the windowsill
cherish your last breaths, your times running out.

Now that you've faded and all life has left you
I wont mourn your death but applaud to your days.
I'll look upon you and death will not frighten me
it reaches us all, in all sorts of ways.