The Dance of Death

The Dance of Death

The moth kissed flame like a lover in rain,

Soft wings trembling beneath heaven’s stain,

The moon looked down with a hollowed eye,

While silence taught the living to die.

Through shattered woods the night bells cried,

Where broken angels curled and lied,

The earth wore graves like flowers of rust,

And every heartbeat turned to dust.

A moth drifted through cathedral smoke,

Past dead men’s prayers no god awoke,

Its fragile body a silver thread,

Sewing together the living and dead.

The stars hung low like funeral lights,

Watching us drown in endless nights,

We danced barefoot on glass and bone,

Learning too late we die alone.

The wind carried names no one could save,

Straight to the mouth of an open grave,

And still the moth chased holy fire,

Consumed by its aching desire.

I watched it burn with gentle grace,

Ashes falling like burnt lace,

Its tiny death more pure than mine,

A tragedy written by design.

The world kept spinning black and cold,

While death collected young and old,

And every soul became the same,

A fleeting spark inside the flame.

So if you see a moth at night,

Circling endlessly toward the light,

Know some hearts were born to fall,

And death has always danced with us all.

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