Fine Silk Spun With Gold

Folded moth wings placed together in prayer open to discover the moon and starlit air in madness flap, circle my heart and like a curtain, take little bites at my soul. But what can they discover - there! My heart isn't threaded spun with gold. And my soul isn't made of fine-silk I'm just like the moon lost in this black ink. With folded hands at night, I am locked-in sleep. I dream and pray to fly away Indeed-there-are no limits to the madness I seek. I even have the freedom to fly. In madness flap, circle the light in a distant sky. My prayers are never-more-spoken as I draw back a curtain, which reveals a fine-silk -spun with gold in madness, desires even my soul.