The Moth And The Flame

You are the fire that burns like hell pith,

A cruel, divine, and deadly myth.

Your eyes are coals that softly gleam,

A cursed kiss within a dream.

I, like a moth with wings of lace,

Am doomed to chase your haunted face.

Through crypts of dusk, through wind and wail,

I trail your scent, so pale, so frail.

Your voice a hymn from graves long past,

It binds me still, it holds me fast.

Each whispered word, a velvet knife,

Each glance a theft of breath and life.

You dance beneath the bleeding moon,

A widow draped in death’s perfume.

And though your touch is cold decay,

I'd die to feel it anyway.

For love like this is pain adorned,

By roses black and thistles thorned.

Yet still I burn, yet still I fall,

For you the end, the rise, the all.

Strike the match and light the pyre,

Let longing bloom into desire.

If I must perish in your name,

Then let me die within your flame. 

Reviews

[emmajoygreen]

I wonder in which language you originally created your finely metered poem? Your English phrasing and general metre is grand: a tale of and about love is told, the reader sated!

You dance beneath the bleeding moon,
A widow draped in death’s perfume.
And though your touch is cold decay,
I'd die to feel it anyway.'

Beautiful sadness