The long dark night of the soul;
Is it long? No longer
Than the imprisonment of a moth
Within a delicate eggshell.
Unbearably long to the moth, perhaps,
But the prison cracks so easily
By accident or by intent.
And then, for the moth?
The glory of flight, delighted in, freedom!
Whether to devouring flame or radiant moon,
This is hardly the moth’s concern.
And why would it be,
After surviving the intolerable?
In its wake, only cracked porcelain:
The mask, the bones, the body—
The little pieces of eggshell.
I do not love the eggshell for its strength,
Nor the moth for its patience.
When one is fragility scattered,
And the other flown in relief—
Perhaps I am content with the ending.
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Author Notes
Another attempt at poetry during treatment, trying to describe part of depression.
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