You always wanted to be the flame which draws the moths.
That magnetic thing that calls out to that is living.
Wishing to be the Flame.
You were simply the moth.
Came did she to hover lightly and admire the flame.
Drawn from the forest of shyness
The flame she wishes she could be.
Unaware of the beauty.
The beauty that you are.
That though the moth is drawn to the flame.
It is that one white moth.
That white moth which draws all the bugs to see.
All the spectators come.
I came.
Come to see you.
The white moth.
Your brillaint whiteness.
Haloed by the empty light of the flame.
Fasly illuminated by the flame.
Almost hidden is the shadow of night.
Yet is the beauty of you which draws me.
You I see.
The white moth.
 
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