Motha Tragicum

It is tiny, brown and crawls into all places unwelcomed.
Guided by the light that it so desperately desired.
No Mother or Father to steer and raise it.
Only two battered wings and six crawly crude legs to stand on.

The stoniest heart grinded by the boulder of life
Feels invaded, and punches out at it; feeling invaded.
No warmth shines here for its blood that trickles down the palm.
No burial happens here for its limping, crushed body.

And oh how tragic it may be!
From one larvae escapes its pod for she
Has turned from silky, slippy thing
To glorious moth, full of bristle and wing.

Content we are to curse, hit and abuse
When the object is tiny and of no use
But see a sleeping grizzly bear tonight,
One would gasp, and run, in fright.