Moth #poetry

Poor old Mr Moth he flies,

His wings are frail and weak,

He flutters about after light,

His soft demeanour, meek,

I wonder why he keeps it up,

The search of endless hope,

I’m not sure that I could keep

it going, or even simply cope,

But then I guess I’ll never know,

How it is to flutter by,

A lonely, sad and haunting moth,

Waiting his time to die.

Why

I often ask myself the question,

A simple question, why?

About the thing I’m doing,

Regarding time gone by,

My plans are always questioned,

I doubt most of my thoughts,

From complicated problems,

To things I may have bought,

But all in all the question,

Is like a pesky fly,

I need to start to enjoy life,

Instead of asking why.