by Nick Gisburne
What Moth does not remember is his birth.
The fear and fury after it is clear.
An aberration, buried under earth,
His father made a defect disappear.
But Moth was not a baby, nor a brute.
His body blended qualities of both.
A nothing, one of nature’s fallen fruit,
He fought for what the Fates denied him: growth.
Unbroken, not a monster, not a man,
Whatever Moth became, the mix is more.
The point at which his memories began,
From this, in all directions, there is war.
The Moth his father murdered once, or tried,
Is free, a force from which the world will hide.
