Moth

My dust wings
Scatter what remains
Of the cold ashes
That were placed
On the mantle.
The healing process
Begins with sadness
Turned anger.
When death does come
It's all paperwork
And closing costs.
When you're born
It's paperwork
And startup capital.
This is why I write:
Poor yet free
To settle on the walls
Of life unnoticed.
To watch each day
File out as a dispensary
Soldier-young
And to its end.
To be swatted
And pushed
Back towards the flame.