The Moth flies under the street light,

Dominant in its small world of concrete,

Surrounded by the glimmer of worlds,

Metres away orbiting the sun,

Defaced by the hour of night,

Not even 100 years old.

There is no sound in space,

Aside from the buzzing streetlight,

And the subtle undertone of the moth’s wings,

Which suspend the entity just below its object of desire,

As worthless as it maybe.