Fleeting Images

Everything feels darkened,
As if I were existing in a black screen.
The middle of the night, a shadow to the day.
Yet the moths keep coming to me,
Does that make me the last light left,
My own night lamp, the only star.
What use is there in such a lonesome thing,
A light at the end of a tunnel.
You'll die when you reach it.
Hovering around my head,
Thoughts and moths alike.
People who sit in silence at the back of my mind,
Merely allowing me to assume how they are.
Fleeting images I cannot touch or converse with
Lingering as troublesome thoughts,
Foretelling death and suicide.
Untold burdens of others forming in my psyche.
Predicting the demise of those I care for
In anticipation of grief.
Only to feel a life affirming joy,
When once again they shine with me.
And we light up the darkness around ourselves,
With tales of bad nights being shared in comfort,
Like torch-lit children tell ghost stories.