crushed
moths
like tiny bi-planes
scuttle across terracotta tiled runways
taxiing to launch positions
they
are
delicate like the fabric they eat
the holes in the clothing we wear
the white lies we tell each other in the black hours
those gentle conceits that caress the ego
guilty jabs of conscience and selfishness
these
these creatures roused from their drowsiness
by our human ability to control illumination
are awoken from the pitch
feverous horror of our insomniac nights
and they
they try, in futility, to take flight before we swat them
the casual violence of argument we share with each other
we share in physical vehemence towards them
on the one hand
leading to the
death
of our relationship
subtle moth eaten
hole
by moth-eaten hole
on the other
the destruction of
tiny bi-planes
crushed
on the terracotta
runways
of a bathroom floor
© Trevor Maynard 2016, as published in The Poetic Bond VI, available on Amazon and at www.thepoeticbond.com