An unwitting tragedy. A poem.
Nonchalant I flicked it casually.
Golden powder on knee I see.
And moth crippled nigh by destiny.
The moth could have been me.
Just a short poem at this hour of the night/morning to slightly lighten myself from what just happened. I hope I didn't damage the moth too much. One wing is very thinned, with no colour, and slightly broken at places. The other lush golden velvety wing tells me what a proud beauty the damaged wing once was, before I damaged it. The moth is sitting quietly. Flutters and jumps if I bring a finger near it. Hope it is able to recover, fly and live. I did not intend this.