Living is a barbaric act,
So there is nothing wrong in dreaming
of being a moth who
lives only for 7 days.
It is still a long period 
to mistake
death for home.
To be consumed by light, 
to be devoured by darkness,
to be nothing more than 
a whispered promise,
a fragile flutter
of wings against the glass.
There won't be a search party
Or mourning.
Or chilled cries and sighs.
No more crippling despair.
No more longing for longing.
Because history glows 
in the moment of a death.
Like the fever filled eyes 
of Satan breaking away
in God's lap.

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