Moths to flames (Poem)

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Moths to flames (Poem)

Sight of decorative flames that

dance, with rhythmic impulse

its invitations draw the pulse in

to its warmth of hospitality.

 

Its promises pleasing, lexicon teasing

Like a friend of years, openly cordial

Sounds of bubble wrap popping

show no signs of stopping, until you draw near

 

You start to feel numb and cold, drawing towards

the realms of those tender flames

They burn and they scathe; teeth-like swords

You pull away as senses are regained

 

The bubble wrap sounds now like bones cracking

A stranger inviting to rubbled ash surely warns of peril

This troubled trap hounds with evil cackling

That dance was but the dance of a devil

 

Its blackness stains your heart, as you regret desire

with a burn in your hand upon retreat,

You look away aghast, and blast the liar

whose fire seemed so sincere and sweet

 

Deceptively mellow, it looks and it bellows

“What a fool you are, human shaped moth!

You return to your fellows, and cry as you meddle,

Yet you know full well, the fire is hot.”

 

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