The Moth

A campfire late at night
Outside the world is cold and dark,
Inside the ring of light
Is warm and pleasant.

A moth hovers on the edge of sight,
Drawn by the warmth and light.
Round and round it circles,
Wings beating silently
As if to sneak up on the fire.

A little closer now
The bitter chill starts to fade
Memory of the outside
Replaced by the new warmth

Farther in,
The draw of the fire
Irresistible.

A fine dust of ash
Floats down,
Gets caught by the wind
Swept away.

The fire, so warm
Is treacherous.

The moth now flies away,
Carried by the chill winds
Away from the warmth,
Away from the light,
Into the darkness.

The End

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