Philosophy of Moths

Sitting on the porch with a gin and a smoke
I felt the wisps of breeze and soft drifts of pitter and pattering rain
Out of the corner of my eye I say a flicker of wing
Rapid and madding, monotonous and confusing
Simple
And I realized I adore the philosophy of moths
They flutter like a heart beat
And they beat and beat and beat with life
Like life they are content with the stream
the constant pitter and patter of wanting to feel alive
They never give in never stop their clinging
To walls stuccoed and crushed;crushing
they sit atop the surface with fragile wings fabriced with veins and wait to start again
They are content with this and with the pulling and tearing at fabrics in closets
They pull and pry not realizing what they are doing to others
to their dreams of nice sweaters
All those nice sweater dreams and ideas of moving to Paris and putting lonesome on the Shelf
Maybe they were ripped away by the flutter of the moth just living to beat life
In the same way they throw themselves at the flames of the world
I am not sure if they are unaware of the consequence
the ironic wit and saying they inspire by being mercilessly drawn into their demise
But I'm not sure I would mind
The philosophy of moths seems safe in a directly ironic way
They consume or are consumed
Destroy or are destroyed
Either way they live