Verse 1

She tied her boots beneath the kitchen light,

And took the narrow path past the last fence post.

She hated every branch that crossed her way,

The damp earth, tangled roots, the pine-dark air.

They told her woods were wicked, wild, unclean;

She learned their words and carried them like stones.

But moths kept turning near her open hands,

As if they knew a road she’d never known.

Pre-Chorus

One pale wing drifted deeper through the trees,

She followed though her breath came sharp and thin.

A silver hush fell over every leaf—

The dark closed gently, drawing her within.

Chorus

Moths, they’re flying home,

Moths, they’re flying to find their home.

Round and round they go,