Junebug. Tigermoth. Tigermoth. Junebug.

Fifteen days and fifteen nights have passed since the solstice

And the June bugs thrash at the wire screens of open windows.

So violent, they thrash,

Ram hard against the sharp broken steel.

The dull drone of their wings scream as they’re ripped to shreds

And are finally silent after hours of the struggle

Towards the light:

A lighted lantern dulling the senses,

Calling out, crooning,

“Come, nightcrawler, come,

Come, little June bug, come to me,

Come night crawler, come,

Come little June bug, come to me.”

The nature is primitive and the instincts are pure,

But the senses are dulled by the light.

Never has a warm flame looked so jagged,

So jagged, so sharp,

So uninviting.

A danger that beckons to the innocent,

Danger to wings on a summer night,

Wings of the June bug,

Wings of the tigermoth,

Caught on the wings of a dream I fall like the heartache

In time

To pulsations of summer

And the dangers of darkness.

Alone in the dark, I know not enough to be afraid

But have the internal sense and inclination towards loneliness

To prefer the comfort of company.

Eyes sharpen by the moon and it’s star dampened beams.

So sharp, they slice the night in half.

Never has a sharp edge looked so soft

As I stared in an act of vanity at my reflection

In a mirror smashed in a spiderweb image,

Cracks spreading outward from the point of precise impact.

Oh what a sorrowful sight to see,

The blood run from my hands but not feel the pain of the cuts, of the realization that in a vain attempt to hold my own against myself,

My fist made that impact, bloody knuckles dripping red down the glass.

I hate my reflection almost as much as

The beta hates its own

As that beta spots itself on the glossy surface of the river.

How vain it becomes as it stares and slowly angers,

Angering faster as realizations become clear,

Clear as the river within it I wade

Deeper to my knees to my thighs to my chest,

So cold but I’m numb to the feeling of the water,

All I can see is myself in the river,

My reflection,

My very own face in the river.

And how vain I become as I stare and slowly anger,

Angering faster as realizations become clear:

Vanity by mirrors is the equation for death,

Death is caused by the hand of the wielder of the glass,

The wielder of judgment,

Decisions are made by the wielder of self.

Who am I? Who wields me?

Those silent wings lightly coated in moondust,

They beat so lightly

On the silent breeze of tonight.

Do they see all?

Do the eyes in the pattern of the tigermoth’s tiny hairs watch over us all with the guidance of an angel and the foresight of a sage?

The magic of the wood and the trees that it holds

Give refuge to the eyes

So they may hide from the sun,

The sun that burns the eyes of the June bug,

Senses are dulled by the light.

If even for one half second it touches

It’s wings to the breast of the sun,

The hairs will fly alight

And the tigermoth will burn,

Wingtip to wingtip, dissolving to ash.

No moondust would stop the embers from burning

Long into the night

After the death of the Lord of the Forest,

The Lord of the Wood

(For even the trees may catch flame and die,

For even the trees will die).

Burn into ashes

Burn to the ground

Burn into ashes

Bury the sound

Of the wings of the June bug as they frantically drone,

A screaming drone, a squealing buzz,

Summons an army of fireflies to the clearing in the center of

The wood of the Tigermoth Lord.

Ready for the face-off

Ready to die

Each identical lightningbug soldier flashing signals in the fog

In the midnight fog

And how eerie it feels to be there to be me

With the lightningbugs all in my mind.

The soldiers are ready, armed to the teeth

As a mirror is erected before them to fight with and flash at

To die before

In the midnight fog.

Would the imperial army of the tigermoth die in vain?

Or would the eyes of His moondust wings just miss them, miss them before the fog fades?