Flight of the Moth

The moth,

Drawn again to the flame’s soft chant, the moth writes circles in burning ink,

its wings stuttering through heat and habit,
a fragile hymn to what it cannot hold.

Each night it rises not for the stars,
but the nearest flicker that pretends to be one.
It knows the scorch, has worn the ash,
yet returns as if longing could become a ladder. 

We, too, dance around false suns:
a job that dulls,
a love that drains,
a thought we mistook for truth.
We build our prisons out of patterns that once felt like homes.

But one night, the moth hovers, pauses, 

senses the wind not as resistance, but as an invitation.
Turns, falters, then flies toward dark unknowns
where no warmth lures, but freedom breathes.

It is not easy; 

The sky is wide and full of new, uncertain rhythms.
But oh, the first rush of cool air
against unstained wings!
The wide gasp of not knowing and still going. 

We do not always escape the cycle, we break one ring to trace another

But sometimes the new pattern is sky-shaped, less a loop and more a spiral.

And in that rising, in that letting go, a song is born not from flame but from flight

And the joy is not in landing, but in never circling the same fire again.