Moff

I am

deviant flight in the night.

I do not delight.

I, the un-butterfly, invade

and panic the moon in your eyes,

shed corpse dust from wings

that are like the pages

brittled from an unclean book,

scales dropped from pale

outspread chaos.

Look,

I lurk in the vestment folds,

laying progeny

that will eat away all colour,

destroy the gowns and glowing hope

they stood for.

I, myself, am a rag on wings,

sinful thing ever ready

in the bad light,

seeking a scream from a child

at the window pane.

Image: wikimedia commons