Ode to...



This moth loves fire it seems.

but then that’s what ’untamed’ really means. 

It's hunger, thirst and lust  all at once

Knowing neither reason or nuance


The wild heart simply wants

Without limits or regards

Or is it madness

That makes us so restless?


When storms wait to be bested

Thoughts are  time only wasted

They are like blankets dousing fires

Around which our dance never tires

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