False prophet

A moth flutters, landing on my chest, my heart flutters as night draws unrest. My dying celestial light  confuses this nocturnal foe as he decendes into the Chambers of my filthy crow.

The crow that died on my beside locker, shedding petal feathers that fall between the cracks of my hardwood floor, and I, fearing the moth, stand, shivering at my bedroom door. 

Screaming for my maid to take it away, he fly's from view beneath the dying stench of my breath, his engorged abdomen, wet, as my saliva dissolves this creativity, splitting reality, and I, just me, trusted to share a clouded fantasy.