Callosamia Promethea

Has the moth in your flame

Finally begun to complain?

Weathered nerves, testimonies

Burns—felony—in third degree

.

When the pressure caved in your ribs

And pink catgut spun from the ceiling

Drenched with red but never bleeds

Wax gums clenched from dissenting

.

But when the moth in your flame

Brings the fire back into your skin

Their sanctity becomes your agony

Pain—murder—in second degree

.

While ashes shall beget winter ashes

As dust conceals carrion under pasts

Maybe you deserved a gas lamp myth

And maybe the flies deserve to watch.