The Tragedy of Moths.

Wrote this poem a few nights ago, when a moth was battering itself against my window, think it says something about human nature. Really rather fond of moths, they are the butterflies of the night.

The Tragedy of Moths.

Moth, why do you fly to candle light,

Or dance against the window bright,

When you wander through the night?

Why batter your pretty wings in vain,

Or end you short life in burning pain?

If you love the light, enough to die,

            Why do you fly,

                        In the inky night?

                     And not the daylight sky.

On an entirely unrelated note, my friends and I came up with the wonderfull phrase 'from the crate table to the grave' on sunday night, a crate table being a table improvised from a crate of beer , for when one is sat on the floor.

Probobly going to a poetry reading at the Bewery Arts Centre on saturday night, the Vampyre novel is going quite well, having some debate as to how many characters I should kill. If anyone reading this writes anything gothic, romantic or post-romantic, it would be rather jolly to hear from you.