Does a moth care
when in silken thread ensnared,
to be feasted on, by a cretin, like a king.
It struggles and it croaks
nighttime as a cloak, does it shout
to the gods a loathsome plea?
Or is pleasure in its whisper
as the master spins it thither
is it masochistic love
that brought it there?
In bondage kissed and molded
into the demons jaws
is folded, wings upon its back
clasped in prayer.
Suckled by a lover
held tightly in tasseled twine,
like a grape upon the vine,
tasted by a connoisseur of the air.
Fragile body sampled,
the wings upon its mantle
glitter slowly to the earth
spinning in their mirth
to rest upon my cheek
dusty and so weak, a petty
antitheses to my birth.