The moth mistakes the lamp for dawn
and circles still when hope is gone.
I watch and wonder if I'm too
chasing lights that won't shine enough.
I walk through the fog without a map,
a name, a face, a fading gap,
not quite lost yet never found,
forever searching hollow ground.
The stars look painted, cold and far,
unreachable in what they are,
and all I want, beneath the sky,
is not the how, the when, or why?
just the one clear truth to call my own,
Before the dark becomes my home.