Moth Man Poem by Gordon R Menzies

I look down at orange-lit smoldering fringes
of my stained topcoat singed and smoking
lingering, lingering at the base of the candle
pressing my feet into the rolling wax of it
to prove that I was here, had never really left
sometimes I press my hands into it, scorched
just to feel the heat again of your sure pull
my hat, cocked defiantly still, burning slow

I was not called by light, you were never a guide
I was drawn to the heat, in which I happily died