Social Demise

Moths, flapping and tapping
their wings against glass,
never heed the bug lamps
zapping their fellows in flight.
Their veer forever forward
toward mesmerizing light.

Others, worm-like,
cling to perforated screens,
cannot hear the winged ones scream.
They keep to themselves,
far from this electrified hell.

They hide inside
angora agoraphobic sweaters,
chew through fiber hides,
and traverse threaded tunnels,
funneling through silk runs.

They smell the toxic scent
of camphor-coated spheres,
and slowly, slowly,
they, too, will die.