Whenever I look, it's moved.
That silver of my heart's desire
flickers coquettishly.
No matter—
not every path is straight.
When I realize that it is not silver,
but white—
white with an ardent light,
like a mad death buzzing in the night
—it is too late.
My dusty back is burned black
by the night-light's blazing light, then I
am plucked from the sky,
a flake of ash, floating in the night.
No matter—
a white hot death is preferable
to the dark.
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