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by
Melanie Anne Phillips
Like moth to flame,
I shade the light,
from fleas below,
who know not flight.
Pigs can't fly,
and saints are sinners.
So it seems,
to most beginners.
Then
they see,
the pigs take wing,
and soon believe,
in everything.
"Life is chilly:
find a fire!"
writes the prophet,
and the liar.
"Don't
despair,
there is no hope.
So why not dance,
instead of mope?"
"Feed a cold,
and starve a fever,"
chants the faithful,
unbeliever,
grasping
for,
the mother lode,
to read verbatim,
words in code.
So I sought,
illumination,
making love,
to conflagration.
"God,"
I pleaded,
with the sun,
"don't let me be,
the only one."
Then from the sun,
there came a moan,
that sounded like,
"You're not alone."
I spiraled
in,
with squinted eyes,
to gaze on one,
who was so wise.
on wings of cloth,
was just another,
burning moth.
Hear the
sizzle,
smell the fry,
when near the sun,
some pig will fly.
Cheer the bacon,
stone the whore,
and never mind,
the crashing boar.
And as
it falls,
its dimming light,
is now replaced,
as I ignite.
"My wings!" I cried,
are charred and smoking."
"No!" they chide,
"you must be joking."
They
watched as I,
went up in glory,
to spin a tale,
weave a story.
"Touch the fabric,
though it pains me.
See the pattern,
that explains me."
When I
finally,
fell to ground,
my ashes did not,
make a sound,
For angst is gone,
when there's no art,
as pain is gone,
when there's no heart.
The only
light,
that truly shines,
is that which falls,
between the lines.
So read my lips,
don't read my words:
fleas aren't moths,
and moths aren't birds.
Will the
last one here,
please turn out the light?
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