
Moth

A whip-poor-will cries out in the distance, with a distinct and eerie song... While up above Cygnus soars, his vast wings star-tipped and strong.
Headlights mark another highway like mismatched string lights. Lines of solemn beams endlessly cascading together to form vibrant clusters against the skyline... Eventually becoming nothing but hazy blurs in the growing distance... Until consumed by darkness... And gone from sight.
Some nights the serotonin is just depleted... Leaving my mind to wallow in some bullshit self-retreat... And it's a lonely night long shamble... Known to me personally as camp self-defeat.
Beauty is raindrops on my windshield collecting pigments from wet street lights... Projecting a palate of neon colors into a very bitter dreary night.
If you're willing to drink
from what the devil's
been sipping...
Then maybe
you'll figure out
what the hell I've been thinking...
During the day,
I have a map.
A crisp, well designed,
detailed map
which I may drift from,
but soon come back to follow.
During the night
I have a compass.
A rusted, cracked,
loose screwed compass
which I try to follow,
but the magnetism is off.
So West becomes East,
and North becomes South...
And I'm left spinning
the full 360°...
Directionless
and lost
until morning.
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