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Friday, November 16, 2007

The wounded moth

It was a foggy morning
So I turned on the headlights,
But before I could back up
An image made me stop.

On the cold wall was a warm moth
Shaped like a stealth bomber.
Could’ve been perfect, I thought,
With its antennae and tattooed wings,
Like an American Indian warrior
Who could get burned but wouldn’t flinch.

Could’ve been perfect, I thought,
If not for its wounded wing.
I wondered where it could’ve been,
For at nights when we’re fast asleep,
Others ply dangerous grounds
And wake up painfully wounded.

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