with no alarm
she dances through the bony air,
eyes like a hungry child
slobbering at the first scent of knowledge.
glistening off of those eyes
– the very sight of it –
the taste that all greedy minds crave.
she flutters towards it,
light peaks through her delicate wings
like how it flickers under the water's surface,
an angel ascending into heaven
easily and swiftly crushed
by the capital hand
that shadowed behind such heavenly light
– with all intention of crushing the wings of innocence –
and with a clear conscience,
as a moth is to a hand as what a person is to the universe.
isn't it painless for a hand to swat forth
and drop a bomb from a plane thundering over a burning city
because it can't see the suffering it causes?
wouldn't it be immaterial, then,
for a puissant hand
to drop one from heaven?
moths that are dazed by the beauty of light
are not seldom blind
to the torment that it's agent to.