Close by, an adrift fly dives into a jar of honey,
And as the last speck of life leaves it’s body,
To an unswerving yet self-destructive attraction,
A moth succumbs to a candle and falls ashen.
They spent their lives chasing their passions,
Believed that there was liberation in their actions,
I see now that freedom has always been an illusion,
We’re enslaved by more than just one compulsion.
When struck by relentless tragedy and suffering,
We search for meaning to justify the act of living,
Settling for anything that can keep us breathing,
A dependence on things that numb certain feelings.
Ironically, weaknesses give us the strength to persist,
Paradoxically, we give up our lives in order to exist,
The things that define us are the ways we choose to die,
We can’t escape, our ‘addictions’ take us from inside.
Lost and Lonely.
Like flies to honey.
Like moths to a flame.
We’re all the same.
