Chipped Blue

The evening bleeds a hazy light.

I watch a moth, in desperate flight,

strike the glass where I sit near.

It beats its wings, a tiny prayer,

against the bulb. A fragile thing,

that finds no solace. Does it sing

its frantic song? The chipped blue paint

upon the railing, makes a faint

line against the fading sky.

I watch the moth, and wonder why

it keeps on trying, in the glare.

A small, soft panic in the air.