The Moth and the Candle

Future lives of our own
Past deaths we have known
Shimmer in the distance
Like so much background noise

Ignore the difficulty of telling the story
To be sure we know it, here at the last
Of what is the problem , for whom shall we tell
Each lost together, brief and fleeting
This tale will only be once broadcast

I own the story as it owns me
It cannot live without me
And the service it does me is no less the same
But what use is the story except in the telling?
No matter who hears as long as it is heard

We scatter each seed of ourselves
Away, indiscriminate, thoughtless, thoughtful
I cannot tell. I can only relate
How the seeds they have fallen
Around me, about me, all over really
And thus it is, no rest for me please
I have not done enough, too much
To deserve it and leave the story
Broken and unfinished

A fully shattered narrative is, I suppose
Normal and complete because we are all cut short
Half-drawn pictures, lacking perfection
Each one a whispered shout at a wall of bleak darkness
Ripples created by the brief dips in pitch
Echo away like a bat in cave
Not dying, fading gently
Until the last ones have touched us
And then they are gone

Future lives of my own
Past deaths I have known
Shimmer in the distance
Like so much background noise