White Moth by Alex Eichen

On the new brick wall
Underneath the soft glow of the porch bulb,
The White Moth shines among the brown—
Half a bird’s size,
Great wings gleaming like moon rock,
Fluttering in the night.
Behold him,
Triumph of creation,
Raising his two blue arms high
In his champion mein.
Behold his shielded cape,
Dusted with the magic of flight
But still, very still…
Spots surrounded by a hazy gray,
Like a dense fog, warm fog,
Reveal embedded sapphire jewels.
Behold his knightly helm,
Crowned by two mighty feathers
That fan out curved from his head.
His eyes, like two obsidian marbles
Have a sage’s wisdom
But something deeper…
Something void…
Among even the Giants he is feared—
What does he do, this King of Moths,
That he can even frighten the Gods?
Do they fear his battle cry;
The sound of his wings,
Beating through the dark of night?
Do they fear his claws;
His mighty talons
That hook the flesh of Titans
And allow him to face them down?
Such bravery, such beauty…
Among moths he is envied,
Bu rejected;
Though cold and lonely
He refuses to move.
He knows while light maybe warm,
When Winter sets,
They fall.



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