Forgetting a poem that formed itself

 Came across this poem today that I'd forgotten I'd written...don't know how long ago. 

Forgetting a poem that formed itself

Perfectly in the night is like a moth

caught in a spiderweb long abandoned: the

moth’s life wasted; the spider unperceiving

of its acquisition and unaware its

rare and sapid meal remains neglected.

 

All the moth’s failed effort to stay alive,

all the struggle and strive, the fervid flutter,

the death disregarded by fellow moths, the

transfixing on a toilet window that never sees the

cleaner’s cleaning, all speak fervently of the

loss of a poem formed perfectly in the night.