“Moths”, “Meet Me At the Stairs” and “Change Will Come?”

“Moths”, “Meet Me At the Stairs” and “Change Will Come?”



We are really just moths.

Earth and its inhabitants

halt from spinning to lift their gaze

to the moon, like offerings at a shrine,

enchanted by the glow of the empress.

Standing still in the midst of chaos

to pay respect to the power that can't be denied,

we are her children whom in her silver light

we bathe and rinse

off dirt and scrape off skin to just look more like her.

Icarus lived in a time where the sun banned

the worship of her beauty, out of jealousy,

pinned her to the cage of day to blind her lure,

because the man would have set his sight

instead on her,

and would have had the wings to reach

the bubble of fluorescent divine-

if only he was lucky enough to espy.

7 billion pairs of eyes

and so many more from under the ground

had wanted to do the same,

to battle the heavens to travel home-

but if only we had the guts and claws

if only we were moths,

searching alone.

Meet Me At the Stairs

A bus chased itself. Its roar

had intended to break through walls

to reach me. Anonymous chatter like

small rats rattling made itself

a symphony of faraway sounds,

parted a lifetime away from where we sat.

I knew I’d never feel as free,

not from watching the birth of light

after a long misty night

or from leaping off a cliff and hugging the breeze,

as the day we hinged on the flight

of stairs, that climb to my classroom

which I escaped,

that descend to yours from whence you came.

Our story stopped its weaving as long as

bodies stayed intact, rooted in the ground,

and became glistening pebbles in the river.

Water and silk travelled like the infinite music of man,

the bell rung after a few dozen feet finished their laps

after the street ignited a steady humming after a green light had turned red.

The forgotten are not astronauts floating light years away from home,

we were just kids who wanted to sit alone.

Change Will Come?

Even the dream that awoke me to the longest night promised change.

Plummeting into a true black before dawn,

the sky seemed to never promise shine,

it gifted perishing runners and taxi haulers

their momentary stage presence,

an accidental spotlight dressed in black.

Everyone was fleeting beauty,

cloudy shapes shifting swiftly.

Was there anything for my eyes to linger on for so long,

or was I fishing for a taste of the new?

Whichever tinge of darks and fires from rusty trees

or lit apartments like balding spots

drawn into my wide, gaping windows had made them bite.

And soon the burn landed on my shoulders,

the frazzled hills found the embrace of the mattress and sheets-

still I twisted my neck and stretched my eyes to yearn to see

the first break of light.

But change never came,

I almost never fought off the sleep.

Bits of blue only nibbled at the corner of the canvas

when venturous explorers and chariots failed the sleepless window dweller,

and became just people and cars.

The magic of the night took its orange lamps and murky streets

and shrewdly held its breath,

as the atmosphere sank under a sea of sapphire,

before drenching my world in unconsciousness.

And upon my wake,

white resumed to its rightful throne of day,

showering trees and streets and corners of the ground with a shield of milky air.

But the shadows are shallow,

the light is bland,

and the colours don't dance.

It’s day.

About the Author

Emily Wong

Born and raised in Hong Kong, Emily Wong is currently in school and on a journey of self-discovery and exploration. As an enthusiastic young writer, experimenting with different forms and expressions is what she loves most.

Read more work by Emily Wong.