Poor Thing

 
Laying in my cold bed,
Staring into a white nothingness walls
The celing light is burning bright,
I fight to see something. Anything.
The colorful glare lights appear from staring to long at the manufactured bulb.
They dance around as my eyes go out of focus.
I start thinking of everything, and nothing.
Lose myself, and just daze off.
Something crosses in my sight path forcing my eyes to again focus.
It's a moth.
I internally curse the damn thing for ruining my trance.
But then I study it.
I watch the moth hopelessly bashing itself into this false light.
Over and over and over again.
It tried so hard to get through the barrier.
All it saw was the light.
Charging full force, beat itself down, broke its wing, wore down to the core.

I thought of you.
That light, your heart.
The glass ceiling fixture around it, your impenetrable fortress.
The battered moth, my  dejected self.

Poor thing.