TALKING TO THE BEES.
What to do when a friend goes mad -
When the head lets loose its fragments like a swarm
And every sting is barbed to pump its venom.
When the wings of words, fan at the hive's lip,
And dance the dance of convolute direction.
What comb within the darkness that surrounds
Will ever drip the sweetness it deserves
When every cell is shrouded under wax ?
I am no keeper of the bees -
I turn away from urges that react-
That leave the air cacophonous with anger.
Behind the veil I watch the flameless smoke;
And though I talk, the bees are still disturbed-
Will not accept the mask of my composure.