A moth,
At her hand.
So placid,
So delicate
But. ..
She crushed it,
With disgust.
Pounded it,
In her palms.
Clenching her fist...
Once more,
Veins grew impure.
Destroying such. ..
Innocent moth
She opened softly,
Her ferocious hands.
There lies a moth,
Who once flew.
With russet
Silken wings.
Now just
A tiny sand.
Dancing freely,
In the wind.
BINABASA MO ANG
Postcripts
Poetry"When power leads man toward arrogance, poetry reminds him of his limitations. When power narrows the area of man's concern, poetry reminds him of the richness and diversity of existence. When power corrupts, poetry cleanses." ...
