Here's something I wrote quite some time ago.

Firedust

Night after night they come.
After the rain has fallen on the steely street
Glacier-white needles piercing a common pool of dark.
Then the hush. Hush; hear the shadows come.
Loneliness is stifling—they seek an electric sun.

And so they dance, about the aura
Of an illusory flame.
They are the outcastes of butterflies, wing-spirited, drab.
Icarusian. They submit themselves
For a warmth, a joy beyond this world.

Perhaps in the very moment before the burning
They are loved.
Illusory love.
Broken and half-winged, but yet not quite
Dispirited. They had dared to know.

(c) Ling 2003