What is it that entices the moth to the flame?
It’s not the most intelligent design of God’s imagination,
yet a child understands the burn of a hot stove.
Why does it so blindly flirt with utter annihilation?
In oblivious grace it flutters ever closer to the warmth.
You can practically see the flames beckoning the prey.
Every fluttering second seems to subtract gaping feet;
the suspense is too much to bear.
“Enough!” A hand seizes the insect and another holds the blaze,
and with smug satisfaction, the moth is shoved into the hungry red.
The stupid creature just couldn’t resist the temptation.
“It’s not that hard to keep away!” you cry in vain.
In the rage, you realize that you don’t understand, and you never will.
Neither did it.