Platyptilia Pulverulenta

The herald of death is real,

The herald of death floats on soft wings,

Dry, Crisp,

Wearing earth and bone.


It commands a great army,

A vast troupe of soul-carriers.

They disguise themselves as life,

But no one is truly fooled.


Smash them beneath your heels,

Your fists,

Your rolled-up magazines!

Witness the absence of life.


Ashes to ashes,

Dust to dust.

More apt a phrase,

I can’t find.


To paraphrase the “good” book,

And behold, I saw,

A pale moth,

And Death followed with him.



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