The Currency of Clowns.

Small, frail shapes

Flitting,

Cursor fast

And confident:

Through woodbine tunnels

In the elf-shine hours, navigating

Between moon nectar cups

 And scent promise blossoms.

Stakes are mortality-high

But the brief-held prize Is so,

So gloriously worth it

That resistance is the

Currency of clowns.

The gods who created moths

Never intended them to

Grow old and feeble.

MothsAtNight72

 

Image: www.jennacartwright.com

26/7/2013

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