The Moth

On the most dark dust was I,

Plopping on the blacks of a mango tree,

With those green slenders crimped by pearls,

And the flowers creeping the broth boulders,



And the birds squeezing through every

Possible ray of the trees,

I encounter a feeble crimson moth,

He glides hastily spiraling my shoes,



Hustling over a slice of crap wedged,

I lay stunned as to not perturb him,

Plunging into my yonder gazing him solemnly,

I possess no icy heart to sack him off,



Not even in the darkest corner of mine,

Then what’s vested in man to pursue

Those glorious roads of life ?

Why does he slab the facile for power ?





This petite couldn’t have been impregnated

With bitter blood, not for once.

Still why is the world dubious?

Every dark second of sight there bubbles out war,



Men jubilating the wilt of the other,

Renouncing his enemy perish at every drop of his blood,

Spelling devastation at the every roots of his tongue,

Crunching the green heat of nature to bleed and parch,



Deteriorating her ominous sacredness to sand,

Sparring those unharmed brittle creatures to bits,

Intruding into these innocent fragilities,

I reckon reality and twitch my ankle as he flies away.