A little flash of silver-grey,

Eyeshadow-coloured wings,

Flutters around my lamp,

I break away from the accusing stare of my notebook's blank page,

And stare at the little moth,

As she teases the lightbulb with her quick, fleeting movements,

We two are alike,

Often dissmissed as ugly, plain,

When compared to big, bold, showy butterflies,

I stare at the light until my eyes burn and water,

I know it will be the death of the pretty little moth,

I switch it off,

The room is dark,

Just the silver glint of wings,

And the glow of the blank, white page.

The End

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