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A hoard of moths came to my room today,
Mistaking my lambent nightstand for the sun,
Only to be rudely interrupted by a glass stay,
To prevent their progress run.

Still, they press on my glass in pursuit of lambency:
They flutter off and on, and waddle from East to West,
In vain hope of some crystal clemency,
to permit them to find their source and rest.

I feel guilt for my false light has led  such pilgrims astray –
Not to home, nor to nectar, but far, far away.
And I wonder if my own Light leads fal…
Better a moth, unaware of his quest at all.


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