by Starsky Banks
Man in moth form, flying low, incomprehensible, this new fate, knowing that now the reaper had come, thrashing and slicing away previous life, the light that once was a haven to the soul, a doorway from the past, now singes the wings that give flight to this meaningless existence.
0 thoughts on “night light”
LA CASA DE LAS TORTAS Internacional(a response in poem form)
Moth in man form flaps surreptitiously toward the maple syrup spill, lapping up gooey sweetness at his local IHOP. He was drawn here by the smell of pancakes, coffee brewing, and the muted primacy produced by private conversations. The impulse to run his tongue down the Masonite tabletop overcame his inhibitions and recognition of the burning eyes of other patrons set to burrowing under his hat was not half as long lived as the stubborn stickiness pinching at the anchored mat of fine hairs in his beard. Wearing on the walk away the shame of congealing sugar beads felt earned, a sweet reward for bravery in the face of franchised propriety. The draw of the place defeated; he would not be back again.