These Moths

these winged things
they do not fly.
they're powderless and powerless
submerged in the lye.
they slide under the cracks
above and below.
always going unnoticed
before the cock crow.
what a life they lead
being pushed by gravity.
not quite taking flight
fully aware of their brevity.
picked off and tossed
like the pests that they are,
falling—never flying—
oh so frighteningly far.

See this poem on TGL blog

Copyright 2013 Jennifer Dupre