A moth is beautiful
but none choose to praise it.
Instead, monarchs flutter, and suddenly,
twenty-four lines are written about how
its amber coloring
reminds you of autumn's heartbreaks
and winter's futile approach, seizing
the broken vessel you tried to tape
together, but to no avail;
its black outline
reminds you of the eyeliner she wore
day after day, all perfect and pristine,
until one day,
you found her among rosebushes & lilacs
crying out "Why does it always rain?"
Where is her sun?
its slender antennae
reminds you of stilts, splintery and all,
tall, magnificent, and so easy to
snap and watch the performer fall from