a moth being so beautiful
that you feel you must touch it
thus killing it.
my god damned genius of a daughter
explained to me that moths have
some sort of dust/powder like substance
covering their wings,
and if you touch the moth's wings
you'll knock off the fairy dust and
it can no longer fly,
then it dies.
the news of this fucked-up information
made me want to run outside into the streets,
firing shotgun blasts into the air
in remembrance of all dead forgotten moths
that have died at the hands of my
curiosity and admiration.
shit, i got a dead lunar moth
in a small cardboard box
around here somewhere.