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I am a moth and you are a calling flame, oh Love.

Are you saying that it is my destiny to be consumed?



If so then I am not a Moth, but candles winged bread

My blood not blood but wine, spirit and fires fuel,



and my life, which is not my own, a smoking sacrifice

and I ernest not ernest, but a self indulgent christ.



Tell me, Oh love: what is to be gained at my death

that is of any worth beyond a flicker and orange sparks?



Oh, if but the hands of Allah could reach through

the portals of my thumping heart which keeps the beat



and pluck me swiftly from this intoxicating flame

between his thumb and forefinger release me...



back into the night to fly like vapor instead

among the soft lights and less violent stars.  






Ernest Bevans

http://www.postpoems.com/members/masapoet