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Tedious, dull, picayune.
Voices in my head smirk, taunt, scorn as if they had a face,
Distorted, cold, lifeless face concealed in swelling cocoon.
As the voices alone were too frail to intimidate me, such valorous, glorious, celebrated moth,
Into this trembling, cowardly, pathetic froth.
Shrieking, enticing, ever-lasting,
Whisper of raw darkness lurking, crawling, seeping through my veins,
Clots petrify flow of livid scarlet upon presence of the twin,
As she stretches, displays, shatters her — my wings.
To heavens the moth does not belong, granted torment of excruciating boredom, apathy, pains.
Aloof, detached, intimate,
The candle illuminates, ignites, prods at my senses.
Jointed legs crawl on Taffeta table cloth, coincidentally, perfectly, cheerfully cerulean to mask dripping blue-green near the goblet,
Twisted woven light sparkles, immerses, drowns in subtle savor of incense.
Wrecked wings rot, erode, resuscitate with fragrance.
Balanced, quivering, serene,
Factual self dangerously close to flamedancer, misshapen, intangible, hypothetical soul far away.
Distance decays as dimensions diminish along with the dark twin, and warmth, silence, calmness and I reconvene.
Blossoms of flourishing, singing, raging inferno hug me tight, and lift me up as though a flicker of flame I weigh.
This time I wish a moth could speak, screech, utter a long, distressed neigh.
Burning, dying, living moth;
Disintegrate, reintegrate, integrated flames.