A moth drifts through the sterile air
with no control over its flight,
blown by currents this way and that,
tumbling through space.

It searches for the light, longs for it,
it needs it to navigate the right direction.
But darkness shrouds the moth,
even its physical form is night.

Unlike its day-time cousin the butterfly,
which emerges from the cocoon with beauty,
the thin, weightless, colourless moth is
confined forever to the gloom.

I am this moth, flitting and fluttering,
desiring to be like the elegant butterfly.
My dreams are delusions,
denial of reality adding to my limpness.

Yet the moth is still alive.
It possesses an intelligence, however small,
and there is worth in its quest for light
regardless of whether it finds it.