The moths are coming to the light

They would call us children if they knew how little we understood of the things we loved. And yet we loved them. We set our hearts on them, and set out to find them. We journeyed over broken lands, withered fields and others of different complexions. All in our efforts to be among them.

We forgot ourselves in the process and feared, we had likewise been forgotten. As fluttering comrades, we pushed each other through the blowing winds with thoughts of touching glory. Time spilled on until none was familiar. None was real. None but the love we sought.

At the distance we saw the lights flickering and crashing with the darkness into one bright glow. In our hopeful minds, we assumed they were awoken by our presence and had lit the way for us. But they saw us and murdered us, while we sought ways to appease them. Our differences, it seems, could never let us in.

 

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