Moth Breath

Her holy clothing, holed and dusty
Skin cold, her powder hands are musty
Wings like gilded bible pages
Rust and velvet, stardust cages,
Must be untouched if she’s to fly —
Finger-printed, freckled sky
Seems less like heaven, more like space —
To brush creation’s star-crossed face
Is difficult once blemished, crushed,
With all one’s gold leaf cracked and blushed
Even stars glow far too bright
Let candle flames put out her light

The End

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