The Moth and the Fluorescent Light

The kitchen light buzzes,
a cheap fluorescent hum,
a soundtrack to another night
I can't seem to outrun.

Dishes piled high in the sink,
a monument to my neglect,
each plate a silent judge,
whispering, "You're a wreck."

The shadows stretch long and thin,
like grasping fingers reaching,
pulling me further down,
into the silence I'm preaching.

But then I see it,
a tiny moth,
fluttering against the glass,
drawn to the artificial gloss.

So small, so fragile,
yet persistent in its quest,
a tiny spark of life,
in this self-made, shadowed nest.

And I think,
maybe that's me too,
flailing against the darkness,
seeking any glimmer that's true.

Not grand pronouncements,
not soaring declarations,
just the quiet, stubborn will
to keep breathing through the tribulations.

The laundry sits unfolded,
a mountain of forgotten things,
but I can fold one shirt,
one small act the present brings.

The emails are unopened,
a tidal wave of demands,
but I can delete the junk,
ease the pressure with my hands.

It's not about fixing everything,
not about overnight transformation,
it's about finding the tiny moth
within my own stagnation.

It's about the lukewarm tea,
the taste of something on my tongue,
the feeling of the mug,
warm against my fingers, young.

It's about the cracked window pane,
the way the moonlight filters through,
a reminder that even broken things
can let the beauty shine anew.

It's about the single text,
from a friend who doesn't know,
but reaches out regardless,
a gentle, unexpected flow.

It's about the memory,
of laughter shared long ago,
a warmth that flickers faintly,
a tiny, ember's glow.

So I stand here, in the buzzing light,
watching the moth with weary eyes,
and I think,
maybe tomorrow,
something brighter will arise.

Maybe tomorrow,
the dishes will be clean,
maybe tomorrow,
I'll feel a little less unseen.

But even if tomorrow
is just another shade of gray,
I'll remember the moth,
and find a reason to stay.

For even in the deepest night,
the smallest spark can ignite,
a flicker of hope, a fragile flame,
whispering my forgotten name.

The fluorescent light still hums,
but now the sound is less severe,
more like a lullaby,
as the darkness starts to clear.

The moth keeps fluttering,
a tiny, hopeful plea,
and in its dance, I find,
a little bit of me.