A drunk decaying moth
A drunk decaying moth
hovers drip-drab through a silvered attic,
at home in the folded corners
of later gone unspoken.
Plaits its nest in the rafters
above dishevelled sheets
festooned with peacock quills,
uncombed, tousled and tangled,
so full of hair, and ponders
the encroaching moon
that brought it here
inside, ashen outsides
of unfurling oyster pearls.
Flits around the splayed subject,
death’s head tacked forever to its thorax,
cursing the Moirai, snarled in the thread.
Questions if it matters;
the allure and the decision,
the kink and the break,
plants its feelers
on the empty side of the bed.
Ponders its mistakes,
if they were really mistakes
at all.
Samuel Kendall is from Nottingham and was recently awarded The Angela Carter Prize in Creative Writing. He co-edits Cicatrice journal with The University of Sheffield and has been published in Three Drops from a Cauldron, Route 57, Picaroon and Laldy.