The moths don’t come anymore when lights come on.
The air is still. The forests do not sing.
And summits meet to talk until the dawn.
The pledges pile like bones upon the lawn—
each COP a ghost, each goal a hollow ring.
The moths don’t come anymore when lights come on.
The heat climbs slow, beneath a creeping con;
the ice retreats, the oceans sting.
And summits meet to talk until the dawn.
We glue ourselves to roads, to banks, to brawn—
they shrug, they scroll, they say “it’s not our thing.”
The moths don’t come anymore when lights come on.
The oil men dine in glass and pour Mouton,
their pens still red with future suffering.
And summits meet to talk until the dawn.
The data screams. The jet-lagged delegates yawn.
They fund the fire while frowning at the wing.
The moths don’t come anymore when lights come on,
And summits meet to talk until the dawn.
—
Alex Kelly is a UK-based painter and emerging poet. His work explores themes of nature, impermanence, and human impact through visual and verbal forms. With a background in realist oil painting and a passion for environmental issues, he is beginning to integrate poetry into his artistic practice.
