dead moths crumble

Hey pomp~ Long time, no review (I think).
I apologize for any circuitousness that this has. It's getting late >.>

What immediately attracted me to this was the title.
Because-- and this sounds weird-- before I saw this poem in my people tab, I had just been looking though a book inwhich I had stapled a tiny bag wherein I had placed a dead moth I had found one day. And I was disgusted to see how much of it had crumbled to dust. So obviously I had to see what this poem was about.

Hooray for breaking things into sections! My reviews love that. ^_^

[Winter]*~

Spoiler

So I had to look up the word "sycophant" (which sounds like a psycho elephant) and google gave me this definition: "a person who acts obsequiously toward someone important in order to gain advantage." And I'm just like "obsequiously?" Aren't definitions supposed to clarify things, not confuse them? -_- So then I looked that word up, and google had "Servile" in the definition, and I swear I thought I knew words but I guess I didn't. Anyway, thanks for teaching me three words from one

You know, I read a lot of your poetry, and I thought I was used to the way that your images flow together and how your words... well, once you described it as feeling "drunken." And yes, I agree. I feel dizzy when I read your poems. But this one seems especially dizzy. Most of the time I know kind of what you're saying, or at least a point you have, but this time, I found myself shaking my head in confusion.
As always, this is not to say that what you have here is not jaw-droppingly beautiful. I don't know where you dig up these images, but I want in on that deal. I just wish for a more common thread between the images.
I especially like your talk of comets. Comets and winter always seem to go together in my mind... And fireworks seem to go with the new year, which, for us northern hemisphere folks happens in winter.
That is mostly all I have to say after reading Winter by itself.

[Spring]
Okay, so now this is beginning to make more sense to me. And some sort of epiphany came to me while I read: This sounds like Auri speaking. Which, now that I think about it, reminds me that much of your other poetry would remind me of the way Auri would speak. Which probably explains why I like your poetry so much and/or why I like Auri so much. There's some sort of shared... mood(?) in there.
But of course this does not sound exactly like Auri: this narrator sounds much more desperate, or obsessed with something than Auri does. So I'll shut up about her now.

Anyway, I like Spring much more than Winter, personally.
Honestly, I'm trying to look for something specific to critique, but everything I pull up seems to be so... non-important. I'll pull up a couple of them so I feel like I'm doing something, but just remember that probably none of these are worth worrying about if you don't feel like it.

i am hostess to a funeral party, hostess to
flightless bodies in matchbox coffins.

I'm imagining that a funeral party would have some... alive things there? But the only life that seems to be there is the narrator, as is assumed from the second line, I think. Just a little confusing.

a eulogy on your skin.

When I read this the first time, I thought the "you" was the moths again, but then I realized that it's the same "you" from before. That was a little jarring for a second because, although I suppose moths have skin(?) it'd be hard to write on it.

and cracks never hide smiles underneath.

Nothing wrong with this except I love it.

{quote] please cup it with your palms.
please remember me.'
[/quote]
Personally, I think this would read better as "please cup it in your palms and remember me." But that's my opinion.

[Summer]
So I understand this less than Spring, but more than Winter.
I'm not sure I understand this whole cancerous thing going on. Actually, that's not really the problem, it's just something that points to it. I'm wondering who your narrator is. I have no idea. I assume they're human, because they're doing things with match boxes, but at the same time, and there's lots of evidence pointing this direction, it feels like there's not much human about them. Also this "you" character has iffy human status too. I know nothing about them except for this strange, abstract communication between them.

Anyway, more beautiful, beautiful images in Summer.
A few picky things

permanent marker scratches.

So you were talking about floor boards, and this reminded me of the time we got a really big gash in our (almost brand new D;) looks-like-hardwood-but-actually-laminate flooring, and my mom took a brown permanent marker and filled in the lighter colored wood to make it not stick out so much. So I'm just wondering permanent markers leave scratches-- they've filled them in for me before.

summer is spillage and smiles that i
pinned to my walls and pretended that my sleeves

This "and" in the second line felt /really/ awkward to me. Maybe it's some sort of verb/tense disagreement. I think I'm too lazy to figure what it actually is. Probably some persnickety grammar thing.

I don't like the last image of comets turning to rust. Maybe it's because I've had too many experiences where I've read a poem that was basically built off of cliches, and it had something turn to rust, and now things turning to rust that shouldn't turn to rust are now on my personal list of "cliche! don't do it! *sirens*" Just telling you to watch out, because it read cliche for me.

[Fall]
So I looked up the quote to see if you actually quoted it from somewhere, and I'm glad that you did. (I kind of wish there was a source though >.>
but that might clutter things up a bit)
I like the way this ended in fall. It just felt right in my head to end with it.

This ended on an effective note, and I'm glad that you tied in the title.

I now understand more about the permanent marker scratches, but it still feels like kind of a reach, personally.

I find it strange that silence tells the narrator that "you" is alive. Usually silence means death >.>

I just want to tell the narrator that no, not doing that does not make you a coward, it makes you a hero. That's what someone once told me anyway.

I kept waiting for the narrator to talk about the dust from comets, because that's like... what comets are made from. Also, dust from fireworks is def a thing. Or relating comets to fireworks, or vise-versa.

I missed seeing comets in Fall. I liked that tie-in to all of the other stanzas.

You know what else this reminds me of? Your short story from the wind's perspective. Except this is more like from the girl's perspective, maybe.

Wow. Look at all those words, and I still feel like I haven't helped at all.
Let me know if you have any questions, perhaps about my interpretation of this, or my liking of something specifically. Maybe this whole poem is just over my head.

Great job, Keep writing!
~fort