Moths

I have a small soft spot for Moths...

What makes a man a moth

or moth a man?

A moth cares not, for what he has

and has not

But long drawn in night

They flicker and stumble to light

Suck in the pale amber,

enamoured when not sober

and in love with that electric tipple

That neon nectar, in ripple or wave

they sweep, those brown specks

For all that light gave

But men are not moths

But green and superficial

Butterflies, a middle class

And a farce in which no moth could claim part

No simple pleasure, and by no measure

Will a man ever find that long sought prize

Satisfaction cannot be found in light

For a man is only wrought in jade

And should envy that little moth

As he dies.

In touch with his favoured flame.

Author's Note

I'm not so keen on the opening, however this was one of my first so I'd like to see how it fares against my newer stuff, let me know what you think.