Fine silk spun with gold

Folded moth wings placed together in prayer
open to discover the moon and starlit air
in madness flap circle my heart
and like a curtain, take little bites at my soul.

But what can they discover - there!
My heart isn't threaded spun with gold.
And my soul isn't made of fine-silk
I'm just as the moon lost in this black ink.

With folded hands at night, I am, locked in sleep.
I dream and pray to fly away
indeed there are no limits to the madness I seek.
‘I even have the freedom to fly.'

In madness flap, circle the light in a distant sky.
My prayers are never more of spoken
as I draw back a curtain, which reveals a fine-silk
-spun with gold in madness, desires even my soul.