The Bee

It lands on a flower,

optimistic and unaware.

It takes in as much of its essence

as it can in  that short moment.


It flies away, looking at other flowers,

but it never lands.

Other flowers are beautiful…

Attractive, maybe even a little sweet…


But its bittersweet.

Bittersweet because they’re not its favourite.

Yes, they could work just fine.

But it’s not quite the same.


So, it flies back to its pretty, confident flower.

Just for a small hit of that temporary perfection.

Only for its invisible ‘reserved’ sign to be a distant memory.


There’s no space for it.


There’s no space for it to land and possibly find solace.

No space for it to dig deep into the burrows of the flower

to find that oh so good juice it thought only it knew of.


No space. No space because of the swarm of others

that the flower had puffed itself up for.

No space.


The bond that it thought was special

was merely biology and science.

The philosophy, literature and Shakespearan connection

was all a figment of its imagination.


And so, it goes off in a fit of rage, hurt and vengeance

to lick its wounds.

The dark cloud hanging over it making it want to

make something else feel the same sting of pain.


And so it latches onto someone,

something, anything and stings.


Through that sting it releases all the weight of its emotion.

The heaviness of love.

The stuffiness of anger.

The weight of disappointment.

The feather-light glimmer of hope.


And soon, the vengeance is gone.

The pain fuelling it starts to fade.

Slowly, but surely it fades.


Colour fades until its grey.

A deep grey of impending peace.

Until there’s nothing.

Nothing but the sweetness of fading to black.


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