Moth
Who is not touched by the struggle of the moth caught in the spider�s web?
Who, looking on, does not silently grieve to see wings once free now tangled
and torn?
Whose spirit does not rise in vicarious triumph if it should break loose from
its captive bonds?
Whose heart does not shed a weary tear when it finally abandons its hopeless
fluttering, succumbing to its tragic fate?
I am the moth struggling in the spider�s web,
and you are lured by that timeless conflict between possibility and reality,
enrapt by the epic battle of hope against despair,
What you feel for me is not love but pity.
Maybe you imagine yourself watching this small drama in your human form,
as though with some god-like hand you can intervene,
and with one deft motion sweep away the pallid filaments that bind me,
releasing me to wing my way up into the limitless sky. . .
But maybe you are just another moth,
and there is nothing you can do.
. . . and moths die in spider webs every day . . .