Moth Eaten

It ought to have protested,
Strived for self preservation,
Made an effort,
Prolonged it’s own life,
Kept swimming
Refused to budge,
Held on with tenacity,
Swung back to its place,
With a natural resilience.

It ought to have struggled before dying,
At least, mourned it’s own death.

There wasn’t a storm after all,
Just a gentle breeze.
Not a fire test,
Just a routine spark.
Not an eroding flood,
Just a trickle.

But it flew
With all the willingness of a bird
Without a trace of attachment
From the nest it perceived to be a cage.

For it was just husk,
An empty shell,
Long dead,
Like a stuffed bird.
The wheat had been beaten
And removed from it.

It flew with a vengeance
At the first chance
Leaving me wondering
When the moth had crept in
And eaten it all.

I am trying to make peace
With the gentle breeze
That laid bare a friendship and it's hollow
That I'd hoped would become full in the years to follow.