The Hive

The Hive: 

They all work as worker bees for the hive,

Dutifully serving their queen and her reign,

Productive, humble, and meek,

They never make a squeak, as quiet as church mice,

They are content without contempt,

For they serve their Queen,

Tempted to never be seen,

For it is all a milk and honey dream.

They suckle on the honey-suckle’s sweet treat elixir of milk straight from the teat,

An artificial womb, of which is crowded; there is not much room.

Not ever uttering a sheep’s bleat,

Nor hearing the cleat of the hooved one’s feet.

They say that ‘all that glitters is not gold’,

Yet they are not so bold,

Sold to the highest bidder,

The highest price,

They cannot think twice.

No matter how much they may strive,

They shall never arrive to the true ambrosia,

Fooled and content on the pollen’s trickling gold nectar,

Believing it is heaven sent,

Immersed in the dispersed flower’s scent.

A glorious sight to behold,

Yet why bother to attain the truth,

Of what has long been foretold?

For this lie is a trance,

And full of romance.

Why not dance?

Take a chance?

This womb is false; devoid of a pulse

It is a convulse,

Signi-flying defeat,

With each buzz, and each beat.

Of the bee’s wings,

In the back-ground,

A siren blares and sings.

A lullaby.

For if you do not think,

And simply drink,

One drop, one dose,

Of this ambrosia nectar tonic,

You shall become comatose,

Rendered into a coma, from an overdose.

This dis-ease is chronic.

There shall be no desire to seek, to peek,

For you are as meek (and weak) as sheep,

A heap, of which I shall keep,

Please close your eyes,

Why do you weap?

This siren song,

Shall keep you encumbered, never to awaken from the gong,

Where did you go wrong?

All you wanted was to belong.

This replica appears akin to the precious ring,

Yet is is crass,

Made from brass;

It shall fade and wither,

Into the either,

It shall rust,

It shall return to dust.

This single drink of the potion,

Shall silence your motion,

And of any notion,

Of returning to the source of ‘all - that - is’,

The eternal ocean.

This nectar,

Appearing as the ‘Promised Land of Milk and Honey’,

Shall keep you drunk, ‘buzzed’, intoxicated;

Vindicated!

This nec-‘tar’;

Is tar,

Black, thick, and slick

Running down your throat ever so quick,

Please!

Do not blow out the candle wick!

Otherwise;

You shall become wise!

And know this is all a trick!

One more drink,

I promise you,

In the flash of a wink,

You shall never have to think,

Nor sink,

Nor approach the uncertain brink.

Just drink!

You shall never have to ponder, nor wonder,

For nevermore;

You shall have no remembrance of before.

Isn’t this all you could ever want and more?

The elixir, the potion, the ambrosia of the gods!

Shall render you entranced, and hypnotised;

Never to awaken your eyes,

Nor to ‘real - eyes’ - / realise,

I am seeking you as my trophy prize.

I shall place upon you;

A hex;

A spell;

Of which you shall not be able to quell;

Lost in the deep - well of which you shall forever dwell:

I shall carry you;

Along to the beat of my song;

I shall place you under trance;

In the disguise of a dance:

I shall have your worship;

Reverence, your penance, all without severance!

I am aware I am a False Idol,

Reflecting your glory,

Your luminous light,

But does it not keep you idle? This is my delight!

I am malicious, capricious, solicitous, and vicious;

I shall pretend; and lead you to believe as I deceive;

That I do not exist; I do not persist;

(Therefore why resist?)

That I am fictitious;

Whomever says otherwise is superstitious,

Of which you should all be suspicious,

This artificial womb,

Powered by a false sun,

Luminescent and fluorescent lights;

They keep you blind and in a bind,

Never to find.

But I shall make sure that as chicks,

You shall never scratch nor crack your fragile shell,

You shall remain under this searing dome of home,

Why would it be hell?

Consider yourself blessed!

For most never come close to my safe haven of heaven;

They boast and make toasts!

Yet I am their host!

Your soothing lullaby sleep of the un-born,

Shall rock you, and hold you,

Never for the cradle to fall.

You shall be kept warm;

Dreaming of fields,

Abundant with gold cornucopia’s of corn,

Of glistening garden’s,

Filled with Red Roses without thorns.

You shall never be met,

With Night-Mares;

Of flickering pictures depicting fictions of monsters dark and scary;

Please,

My children,

My little - ones,

You have no need to be wary;

On the contrary;

I shall build you all a home on the prairie,

Glittering, Sparkling, and Tinkling with Fairies:

Pay no attention to the sounds outside,

I shall adorn you, as I adore you;

With a blanket;

From the fleece of Sheep;

You are all mine to keep.

Please, do not make a peep.

You shall never see my horns,

Nor hear the horn.

I do not wish for you to be born nor re-born.

I shall cradle you within your cradle,

Pour chicken soup lovingly from the ladle,

This is no fable.

I fervently wish;

Upon the North Star,

For you to never awake, nor to forsake;

To stay and never fray,

To not go too far.

I strive to ensure,

I implore,

For you to not explore,

To not see the door.

Please stay where it is safe,

Do not morph nor emerge from this metamorphosis of your cocoon;

Outside, I tell you, there is a turbulent monsoon!

Inside this play-ground;

Where it is safe and sound;

There is a glorious and radiant moon!

Luna illuminates the gloom!

There is no impending doom!

Why leave this safe womb so soon?

The teat shall inevitably run dry,

But why sigh? Why cry?

The fresh and nourishing ‘breath of life’ from our dark mother;

Is now morphing tepid and poisonous,

A leak within the amniotic sack,

Of the air - ways,

of breath and of death,

The chemical dripping taste;

Of Waste;

Of Nitrous - ‘Ox’ - Ide;

A ‘genesis’ of genocide, and homicide,

It has lead those whom are aware to suicide.

Could it be worse? Carted off in a hearse, this is nought the time to rehearse or disperse. 

Power in numbers, unite as one, for to divide is to hide, and be hunted as cattle for their hide. They may be snide, and composed of haughty pride, but flow with the tide, for they do not know what is inside. Division  

Drowning in the once safe place of the womb,

The gasses and fumes,

Nearly consume.

Yet, it is not all doom.

All this aside,

There are still those;

Whom shall exit this womb,

They shall vacate, excavate, and exhume,

Leaving behind its crowded room.

For those whom see that not all is glee,

You may feel as insignificant and trampled upon as a flea,

A deep desire to flee.

A plea to be free.

To be inflicted and restricted,

The crushing gasp of an asp,

This state is not fate, it is verse and sparse:

An evoke of inner confliction and contradiction,

A conscription disguised as a prescription,

Of which you have been assigned;

Yet there was never a ‘sign on the dotted line’.

The word of ‘prescription’ allures to ‘PRE’ - SCRIPT’,

This depiction of fiction, is derelict;

It is leading to the pit:

This you could not predict, nor is this a true depict.

You are the author;

Re-Write the Script:

You may ask;

‘Could this get any worse?’

I must grimly agree and decree,

It is to be carried away in a hearse,

To be the victim of coerce,

To have become immersed and submersed;

Within a inverse universe;

A curse that is adverse and perverse.

‘Ill comes often on the back of worse’.

This not the time to rehearse, nor to disperse,

This you shall reverse.

“For better or for worse”.

They say ‘Misfortunes Come In Threes’;

I must solemnly agree, that woe has brought us down on our knees:

They Say:

’Death is deaf; and will hear no denial’

To this proverb I reverb;

‘They shall taste the waters of The Nile’.

This terminology, mythology, and turn of phrase:

Iterated in the silk of Latin:

‘Abysses Abyssum Invocat:’

I translate this as to “invoke an abyss”.

I truly say in response;

I don’t know what to make of this.

They say ‘absence makes the heart fonder’;

To this I ponder and wonder;

The drink of ‘absinthe’,

It’s etymology arising a theology,

Is the ‘sin’ or ‘synth’ component an opponent?

For ‘synth’ links association to ‘synthetic’.

The artificial and superficial.

Words such as symphony, sympathy, apathy, sin, and nymph,

Is there is anything of interest or value here? I may have immersed within myth.

‘To each their own’.

‘Follow your own path’.

Ignore those whom direct upon you their wrath.

I believe this to be wise advice:

To follow not what is hollow nor filled with sorrow:

Nor to listen to another’s advice:

For you are not mice,

I do humbly suggest to not rely on the vice.

It may seem with a imperceptible and interceptive gleam,

That all may not be what is seems,

An illusion, a delusion,

Smoke and Mirrors holographic on cracked & shattered glass;

Alas,

This too shall pass.

There is always a silence, a calm,

A sense of societal ‘norm’;

Preceding the cataclysmic storm,

The hope of a prevailing new morn.

Those within the catacomb honey-comb walls of the cocoon of the womb,

May not have arisen,

But their birth is soon.

The illustrious swoon of the dark and light side of the moon.

This depiction of what may occur,

Is indeed solemn, and for-lorn,

But you have been warned;

There is approaching a new era;

A new reign;

A new dawn.

There may be those whom conspire and strive,

To deprive and silence with violence:

Their hollow chalice filled with malice,

As lost as Alice.

They strive & thrive to divide,

To render us broken, disassociated, fragmented & fractured;

Yet we shall never be captured.

This is their rapture.

They want for us to be swallowed down whole,

To fall down the rabbit hole.

A place devoid; a void.

No substance;

Only a hole in the soul.

They seek for us to get lost in Alice’s Wonderland;

Do you understand?

Please,

Take My Hand…

United Together;

We shall stand tall;

One and for all:

We shall make a stand:

United in our humanity;

Amidst the calamity;

We shall fortify a construction;

That is immune to Destruction;

It shall be fortified and founded on sturdy land.

Not that of withering and impermeable sand.

All of us together;

As parts and instruments of a band;

We no longer fear their reprimand:

We shall play our swan and victory song;

Knowing that we all belong.

This is not the time to yawn nor mourn;

A season of Spring;

Re-Born as that of fawn.

This is the new morn.