The Psychology of Steel Wings

Moths are flying from your closet.
To you they are magicians
made of dust and thin air.
Their powdery wings
speaking of holey sweaters,
and cedar chests’ sweet scent,
and all things lying dormant.

The moths are wise enough
to come to the flame,
but they come as Icarus to the sun;
longing, yearning, and burning
into light.

You are wise enough
to grow your own steel wings.
No need for wax and stolen feathers.
Made of blood, and ashes, and mettle.
Wiley enough to reflect the sun.

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