Spit and Spine

Fluttering softly, its wings tremble.
The moth sees the light.
But through its venture across the air,
With the quick swish of wings,
It propels into the invisible wall.
Confusion aching through its body,
It hits the wall again.
If only it could reach the light.

Up and down.
From this clear wall to the next.
Hours pass but time stands still
As the light slowly fades and darkness gives way.
Muted steps and garbled voices.
A language it does not speak.

A tired breath.
One last attempt.
A body motionless against the glass.

The steps outside grow louder,
Though dumb to the moth’s ears,
And the voices become clear.
Even in death the moth is manipulated.

For gain,
For pain,
For choice.

A gentle toss.
One quiet thump.
A body motionless against the grass.