The mothman is like any other,
He sculks behind black shades to hide the red behind his eyes, they burn bright, shadows of the soul he left behind,

The mothman loves to drive, each light a love, an ever enticing invitation,

Come to us they say

And he presses the gas a little harder in the mothman mobile, his chariot lisence plate ISCARIOT, he doesn't like the daylight air, it muffles the cool allure of the street side lamps, their drawl so soft in the gloom of the night sky,

The windows down, leather hugs his thighs, his knuckles white as the moon, the wind blows his dust coated wings, smother his antennae slick to his head, the red of his eyes hidden behind black lenses, painted indigo by the stars ahead of him

Every drive a million wives, a million lives, and all he has to do is pick one, maybe on a night like tonight, maybe a lamp a little dim, like him, he turns a corner, the road is empty, an industrial park who's shadows loom over him, a feeling all to familiar from the look in the eyes of those who bear him,

The mothman is like any other, he likes to drive, silk chrome buckles, on plush handles, the rumble of his voice matched only by the engine, 60, 80, 100... 120, he's looking for love, a love so deep, he wants to kiss the lamp, it's so inviting, don't worry about the germs, his bumper wipes them off before he plants his soft lips, against the lamps hard stem,

A white gloom is swept from the street, the mothman is an omen with purpose, he looks for love and he finds it, a mangled mess, a kiss of death, 120, 0, a fast descent, so bloodied, bodiless, he spreads his wings to find the moon, the glow so deep

The mothman comes, the mothman sleeps, in leather seats a lamp reflected in those dead red eyes