Ode to Moth

From the desk of Vitasta Raina
Time: Irrelevant

I found another moth
hidden behind my books this morning.
Calcified, like a grim history lesson.

Were you, large moth, were you grey,
were you the original death
following me like a shadow cast from the darkened waxy lights of suburban Monday afternoons?

Or were you in the nasal cavities of the self-defiant society guards
breathing in the nauseatingly satisfying odors of that Mercedes' blue tailpipe?

Or there when the shriveled-below-shawls of South-Delhi-Charity-Organizations one-eyed dog and one-legged whore were buried beneath page-3 philanthropic faces?

Or are you just another moth, hidden behind my books?
Moth, death in the language of my mother, 

legend in the language of Lovecraft.

*

Ideas for my Business Card, Maybe.

**
Bombay Love!