Still I chase after the invisible
Moth, though I can't pretend it torments me
Or even that it's any more real
Than an urge inside me to be,
Though nothing I create bears a resemblance,
It's like a carnival barker smaller
Than a fly, this insistent voice, "Your chance,"
It says, for adoration and dollars,
To be heard, obeyed, to rise to the top
Of every murky barrel. It would stop
You dead off any scent that you could track—
It's meant for the children of the dark, a prize
To think the world will change if they are recognized.
It's kindness, then, to take the promises back.
