Has the moth in your flame
Finally begun to complain?
Weathered nerves, testimonies
Burns—felony—in third degree
When the pressure caved your ribs
And catgut spun from the ceiling
Drenched with red but never bleeds
Gums clenched from dissenting
But when the moth in your flame
Brings the fire back into your skin
Their sanctity becomes your agony
Pain—murder—in second degree
But ashes shall beget winter ashes
As dust conceals carrion under pasts
Maybe you deserved all their abuse
And maybe the flies deserve to watch.