The moth flew round and round,
circling its path.
The never ending agony of life,
the never ending uncertainty.
A moment of truth,
shrouded in a moment of deception,
only to stumble through a tunnel,
a tunnel of pitch darkness.
Weakened souls gather nothing but dust,
settling down with mediocre aims,
swallowed by misery,
eaten up by the stronger,
the survival of the fittest.
As the moth rises up in to the air
it meets the rotor blades of the fan,
cutting through its wings,
shattering a thousand dreams,
a single lifetime.
Cut wings,
gliding through the air,
slowly settles on the floor,
waiting for the wind to blow it across again,
an aimless soul.