Vapid movements, the moth descends and finds his pain will cease
But only as he ascends with no complaint as food of spiders, seed of birds.
The journey’s appointed end comes with no sound heard.
Scarlet warnings of darker wisdoms breed
A pilgrim brought to naught when only light attracts
This mindless wandering epitome of ease,
A drawing to what he cannot use and which he cannot even please.
The question’s not been asked, it seems, the simple act,
The noble task, the trek from nothing to the summit’s
Glory proves the goalie’s goal―to annoint an apex as in an art.
The point of vanishing desire’s the only worthy arc
And comfort in this world; its prisms’ glow, the slow attrition in the wick
Embracing richest flow in moments here sans thought to hesitate;
Forever’s soon enough, the pas seul reveals itself but far too late.