She stopped in front of the picture
Abandoned in the dark corner.
Staring at it,
Rooted at the very spot.
A feeble ache in her heart,
Growing stronger...
Spreading with each passing second.
The swirling colours,
Calling out to her soul
Beckoning her close...
How inexplicable, how incomprehensible;
Destroying the walls of logic
Opening the flood-gates of never experienced emotions

How do you explain the sweetness of sorrow
The magnetism of heartbreaking melancholy
The touch that burns you,
Tears you apart
Yet unable to stop
Caught in the spell of its destructive beauty
Is it what draws the moths to the fire?

She stood there wanting
Wishing for the undefinable
Aching for it...
How she wished she knew
How she wished she understood
And how she craved it...

She could hear the voices,
Drifting towards her
From the world outside her room,
Her white washed stark sanctuary;
She lay in the bed
A smile playing on her lips
Staring at the ceiling as always
Her window to the unseen...
She just had to close her eyes
To see that picture...
To feel its drugging effect.
They called her mad, disturbed.
Little did they know
That she now knew the answer...

'What draws the moths to the flame';