I am a moth drawn by the flame
of dead poets, the place of inky spirits
match struck with light time cannot extinguish.
Even the dusted shelves hold a glow,
a place where Poe’s raven is a flashlight
into the darkness of a heart tortured by grief.
Amongst the perfume of frail paper
Emily’s feather of hope comforts,
brings faith to the soul what today cages
tomorrow can set free.
With wings pressed into pages I hear
poets question, test the binding of mortality
with words that bring life to generations
beyond the demise of their pens.
The resurrection of verses into new eyes
is the eternal gift of poetry…Calendars drop
their wearied days, but cannot deter
the eclipse of moths who hunger for illumination.
©Susie Clevenger 2023
Note: a group of moths is called an eclipse.
Poe and Twain, the latter of all folk (!!), the best for me.