Tutankhamen’s remains

 Scoots by the light,
haphazardly crazed
to be drawn near
the lunar cousin it believes
to have discovered.

Darts here, there,
nosedives in curiously
from an angled ceiling;
there has to be, admittedly,
admiration in that agility.

When the flight began,
it can’t tell, peripherally
there’s some night mystery
in why there’s now three
of them.

Three is one more
than can be easily ignored.

Moths!

Moon dust’s a prophetic,
golden palm ending, worthy
of a crumbled Eqyptian king.
Okay, I’m stretching it a bit.

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