• Tiny moth wings stutter
    As they flutter through the fan
    Propellers made of porcelain
    Spin ‘round breaking what they can

    Pieces of dusty appendages
    No bandages can mend
    Flying through the darkness
    In every direction the fan may send

    Confetti through the fan blades
    There it goes once more
    Tiny moth so battered
    Lies in bits upon the floor

    So the cycle continues
    The breaking then the bleeding
    Tiny moth so human
    Never learning from the beating