Shorts: A Collection Of Utter Nonsense

The Man with Moth Tattoo's

Moths with a twist, to make us all reel,
In the form of tattoos inked in a hidden appeal.
To our morbid minds, with an eerie effect,
This can't be real, but what should we expect?
The ink is black, like a devilish trill
The wings are spread, with a sinister frill.
Once brought to life, flying in the night
It'll be hard to forget this terrible sight.

Moths tattooed with eyes of deep despair,
Made to watch us, as if aware
The clandestine art, hidden for the night,
Passing above us from a great height.
Moths are everywhere, in this dim light,
Their tales are never ending; an infinite flight.
Their wings spread wide, with a bone rattling chill
Softly whispering of their search for a deathly thrill.

•.°☆°.•

I still remember that strange autumn as if it were yesterday. It was 1967 and I still lived in West Virginia with my grandparents. Their small neighborhood was calm, quiet, the breeze from my open window relaxed me.

The first time I saw him, I was sitting at my desk chair. I had been folding airplanes ready to aim at the trash, when suddenly I spotted his large stature and abnormal dark clothing from the corner of my eye.
The man's body was covered in the same moth tattoo repeating itself like a broken record; very little of his natural skin showed through.

I continued to watch the man for what seemed like hours, but he never left. I pondered over how small his stomach must be and how large his bladder, until soon the moon began to show its face and those thoughts quietly faded. As the man fell asleep on the bench, his tattoos moved then vanished one by one as if flying away. I knew now that these tattoos were more than just a mere ink stain; I was undoubtedly scared of him but also incredibly intrigued. 

•.°1°.•

The next morning, my fear of him turned into an obsession—a need—to understand him. As I dug into research, I began to uncover the folklore of moth tattoos. It seemed that these simple designs had been used for centuries to ward off evil spirits and bad luck.
With this knowledge, my first assumption was that the tattoos gave him some sort of protection; I was still very far off.

That following night, I sat up again by my window —watching as the man's tattoos leave, then reappear into his flesh— until I heard a loud noise coming from my sister's room.
I quietly rushed to her side but it was only a bad dream.
Then I watched in amazement as one of the man's tattoos flew through her open window and landed upon her cheek like a calm shadow. It drank from her tears like a deer at a gleaming pool by her eyes; feeding off the sorrow, until soon she awoke—raising her arm to rub off dust its wings left behind.

•.°2°.•