Moth dust filled up the room like a downpour of cinders caught in a sunbeam,
particulates wafted on the breeze pushed by the flutter of filthy wings,
they spun, spun like the web catching dew in the morning woven by spiders,
or like a spinning galaxy, stars overhead in the system of chaotic catastrophe.
Carried away by light,
carried away on flame.
As we sprayed the aerial poisons,
the bodies piled up,
carapace upon carapace,
until there was nothing left.
and only the roaches broke the silence,
chittering in darkness,
and we learned nothing from tyranny,
among the bones of an ecology.
Black, black as the nights that were once navigated using the stars,
by tiny trembling furry astronomers seeking a small light to share,
lost, lost to the waste of efficiency, in the light a new kind of dark.
Frail motionless wings, burned and dismembered, bodies taken apart.