Femme Fatale

“Not too near my son,” said dear Mother Moth
“To the flame that seduces thy senses,
For though it may charm, thou shalt later loth,
After fire consumes thee into pieces.”
Yet dearest Little Moth did not listen,
Instead fixed eyes upon sweet flames’ beauty.
To her charms fell Little Moth to hasten,
And hasten he did, to sweet flame’s beauty.
“Mother dearest! Help me, saveth me so!
It burns! It burns! It rips off my proud wings!”
Yet all that Mother Moth could do was go,
For she could fight not what sadness fate brings.
Beauty is but illusion to the eyes,
Rise above it! Many a fool cries, dies.

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    For people who love to think.

    Jian Carlo R. Narag, MD

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