Lysiane Kouakou

Canada

Message to Readers

A conversation between an oblivious potential saviour and a soul worried for the ones trapped in past mistakes.

Moth and Glass

April 10, 2020

Moth. 
    Moth?
Yes, I know it’s odd, 
But maybe it fits just right.
It’s just about every ounce of her -
Just one that can’t find its way out of a stuffy home.
Once,
There was a flame to dance with:
A cheap ceiling light.
Illuminating as the sun 
When darkness stole the outside.
Night came alive, day left to die.
And
Windows opened to kiss a light breeze.
Of course she couldn’t resist!
    Moth?
Yes, it’s perfect . . .
But
Open the windows in the morning,
The last of night’s arrived.
Ceiling lights turned off.
She’s left in the dead of night 
Surrounded by chewed pens and anxieties,
Shot glasses and scents that linger.
Two wings, wild with panic
Bumping into glass.
    Moth?
Yes, perfect name.
Moth to a flame -
But the lights are off.
Promise me, please
You’ll open the windows in the morning. 
    Moth?
Yes, I know it fits - 
See, 
She regrets it now.
The windows are closed.
She’s losing hope.
Promise, promise, promise me please:
You’ll open the windows in the morning. 
     . . . 
    Moth?
You’re not listening.

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