The moth that is drawn, to the golden flame-
To her death, with a reason, all the same.
She endures repeatedly, not unaware,
That slowly kills, the flame she loves to wear.
She loves the bright flame’s, painful embrace;
She loves its graceful dance against her fluttering wings.
She has fallen in love with her death dressed in amber,
And she lives with the pain, to be with her love.
Nature forgot, to colour the moth like her sister,
Her wings were left dull, she remained unnoticed,
But with her love, her wings glowed brighter than ever.
Her uncoloured wings, shined, though not forever.
It was love that taught her, to live with the pain;
Love that taught her, to love the wounds of the flame.
For she loved the flame beyond her own life.
Adore she did, that which ended her life!
The moth returns without fail, to her golden love,
For it is that golden death, which brings out her colour.
The moth loves the way the flame hurts her,
For she loves the way, her love destroys her.