Different flavors of suffering. Moths, velvet and blood - By Salem Youngblood

Written By: Salem Youngblood

Category: Poetry

Competition: Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026

Salem Youngblood presents "Different flavors of suffering. Moths, velvet and blood," a compelling entry in the Poetry category of the Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026. This work delves into the intricate tapestry of suffering and transformation, capturing the ethereal beauty and haunting darkness that accompany such profound emotional experiences. In this piece, Salem Youngblood masterfully intertwines vivid imagery and evocative language to explore themes of release, rebirth, and the fragile nature of existence.

About the Work

Youngblood's poetry is a vivid exploration of suffering, where moths emerge as symbols of transformation and release. The work's haunting imagery and lyrical style create a somber yet beautiful reflection on the nature of pain and healing. Through the metaphor of moths uncoiling from blood, Youngblood articulates a journey from despair to a form of transcendence, offering readers a glimpse into the delicate dance between life and death.

Different flavors of suffering. Moths, velvet and blood

Original Submission by Salem Youngblood

The Moths

The blade cuts silently, slow

A whisper colder than the snow,

And from the vein-no crimson flood, But wings uncoiling out of blood.

They wake like secrets long denied, A living swarm where I have died. No shriek, no cry, no piercing call- Just fragile bodies, wings so small.

Death’s-head heralds, pale and lean, Rise from fissures, obscene, unseen. Their velvet dust, like prayers undone, Obscures the lamp, obscures the sun.

They thrash against the windowed night, A frenzy born from inward blight; Each wing a syllable of grief,

Each flutter granting brief relief.

The pain dissolves into their flight, A darkened grace, a borrowed light; I breathe them in, I let them go,

They gather where the shadows grow.

Once my wrists held nothing dear- Now countless moths assemble here. No chains, no hymns, no whispered psalm, Only wings that stitch the calm.

Their bodies clatter, frail, profane, Like brittle beads against the pane; Yet in the storm I find release,

A moment carved, a moment’s peace.

The marrow sings, the marrow breaks, And every fracture something makes- A creature born of torn apart,

A moth that feeds upon the heart.

What beauty in such rupture lies- A swarm ascending from demise,

To turn the wound, so raw, so deep,

Into a harvest I may keep.

For they have always been my own,

The moths that nest in marrow, bone;

Their silence kinder than my breath,

Their beauty softer than my death.

And if I fade, then let it be,

A thousand wings escaping me;

No grave, no stone, no memory,

Just moths that rise eternally.

Velvet

The blade obeys in silence,

metal cold, its hunger called.

The skin yields-not gush, not flow,

rupture bleeding out a show.

Flesh rent and open, they crawl-

soggy, chitinous, obscene.

Death’s-head moths, their bodies raw,

slick with blood, with velvet maw.

They bite the air, they bite the bone,

they make the wound their breeding throne. Their wings beat heavy, clotted, damp,

as if the marrow were their lamp.

The body bled and hollowed, vein by vein, moth mouths, each one a mouth that feeds on pain. Their dust, not holy, not sacred,

but bitter, black, and serpentine.

I do not scream, I do not cry.

I watch them gather, climb, and fly.

Each frail, moth thing a testament-

that ruin breeds its sacrament.

And in their myriad, choking flight,

I taste, at last, the edge of night.

Not liberation, not deliverance,

but a violence with elegance.

They eat my silence, drink my breath, they colonize my lesser death.

And in the swarm, I almost see

that moths have always lived in me.

Blood

The blade descends, the night is still, a hand compelled by darker will;

And from the vein, no crimson tide, but spectral wings that open wide.

They rise, they rise, a mournful choir, Each fragile form a funeral pyre.

Their whisper shakes the midnight gloom, A hymn of dust, a living tomb.

O mournful moths, O pallid host,

Ye are the things I love the most;

For every flutter, every beat,

Turns sorrow into something sweet.

They circle, circle, endlessly,

Like thoughts I cannot set free.

They haunt the corners of the room, They are my dirge, they are my doom.

And in their dance, I am released,

A broken soul, a moment’s feast;

Though death attends, though shadows press, Their flight becomes my blessedness.

O wings, O ash, O spectral breath- Ye mock the silence known as death; And if my body fades away,

Your dust shall never know decay.

Forevermore, forever be,

The moths that first escaped from me; And when I die, let none recall- The moths shall rise, eclipsing all.

About the Competition

The Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026 by Hashtag Kalakar is a platform for writers worldwide to showcase their talent and creativity. This prestigious event celebrates the art of writing in various forms, providing participants with the opportunity to share their unique voices and perspectives with a global audience. The competition highlights the importance of literature in understanding and expressing the human experience.

Thank you, Salem Youngblood, for sharing "Different flavors of suffering. Moths, velvet and blood" with us in the Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026. Your evocative exploration of suffering through the lens of poetic imagery has provided a profound reflection on the complexities of emotional transformation. We appreciate your contribution and look forward to seeing more of your impactful work in the future.

About Hashtag Kalakar

Hashtag Kalakar is a creative platform dedicated to providing artists, writers, singers and other creative talents with opportunities to showcase their work and reach wider audiences through competitions, features and creative initiatives.