In the quiet of the night, I flutter,

Aimlessly, unacknowledged.

My wings, a dusty canvas,

Not graced with vibrant hues,

Nor daylight's embrace.

The butterfly, adorned,

In beauty, Wild and free –

The creature

That I will never be.

For I am just a moth,

Drawn to a world,

That doesn't see my face,

I am the avoided,

A hollow echo,

In a world of light.

As I dance alone in the dark,

The flames…

They draw me in,

Leaving me burned,

Again and again.

Yet still, I long to feel,

The flames again.

My spirit, beaten and battered,

My wings, torn and tattered,

Forced to carry the weight

Of a thousand shadows.

Forgotten, in the company,

Of nothing but the moon,

I am but a fleeting whisper,

A dreamer of the day,

In shadows deep.

In the cold arms of the night,

I weep.

For I am just a moth,

A drifter, nothing more,

A ghost among the living.

Envious of the butterfly,

Of its freedom, of its light,

While I watch, condemned forever,

In the night.