identity

She grasped the moths wings

Held it in front of her face.

Surely not a thing of beauty.

No butterfly spell, no famous grace.

She held it in a lower class

Away from freedom in twitched.

This ugly fallen face,

Hesitation was a mere wish.

Her breath visible

In the chill of the night.

She took the tiny moth

And took it towards the light.

The pattern of the wing

She held in her grasp,

She thought of as nothing

Until she let the moment pass.

The intricut design

The crafted piece of film

Was nothing to the girl

Who caught it on a whim.

Wishing to be forgotten,

Hoping to be saved,

She set down the moth

Into its cement grave.

As she turned away

To run into the road

She thought of the ugly life

She had just sowed.

The butterfly fell into the deep 

The brightest colors fade to black

Flight stolen from a moth.

The given grace taken back