The moth’s wings are pressed flat underneath the glass in the shape of a heart.
How did she slip ‘twixt the painting and the frame, it bulges at the top.
Did she spend much time trapped there, flying about? Or was she wedged quickly?
Was death swift? Merciful? Or did she watch on as we walked unaware?
Unaware of her quiet struggle, her slow ignominious death.
To be a moth on the wall, seeing what she saw, knowing what she knew …
Then to die like that, with no-one noticing, no-one caring … just gone?
— Poetry —