A sandy-brown moth giggles at me,
trying to get me to lighten, to float,
she inspired by the motivations
of a dedicated employee.
The little moth with horribly-damaged
wings, gashed tummy,
labors in the mental health
arena where we learn to battle bad weasels
with intelligent, rehearsed choruses of pink notes
blowing around all of the light fabric kites.
The kites plunge into my mind,
bringing out tiny pebbles from sick,
unending tunnels carved into memories
of the dead who hide all day so well,
I forget they are my neighbors,
and the pebbles grind all good away.
The kites don’t come back out to play,
and instead, they dig at the caramel
of the part of my mind I will never know.
My gaze flows all around all of the gigs
calling my name, asking me to be responsible,
but the pebbles brought me down because
I am only slathers of mush only praying
to be groomed to love the world.