Like so many, she stayed hidden;
like the dead, disguised beneath
their granite stones. Inside her ribs
a gem-like flesh pounded joy,
the music of her distant home.
At night, summer moths flocked
beneath her window, each one
a tiny version of her own addiction
to the flame; wings tattered, burned
could hardly lift her up again.
To most people the world is filled
with longing; to her the darkness
filled with world- ever drawn into
the candle's wick for a single,
simple, catastrophic prayer.
