A realm of shrivelled-up dream and song,
A lonely bumble bee forlorn,
Hopping from petal to stooping rose;
Scouring the skies in stuttering flight
For a single, shimmering respite
From the rush of her woe morose.
And all around, no flower dares
To raise its head against her whirrs
The wind is ruthless as her thirst;
As she drones on, a hopeless creature
Amidst the ruthless rage of nature-
A withered, tragic caricature.
Her wings beat for a tiny rustle
Oh, they beat for the homely bustle
Of flowers, thriving, green and strong;
Alas! She snaps into delusion,
Mistaking sand for silver ocean
And dives into the grass headlong,
And feels a wing shatter and crunch-
A terrible period to her song!
A flower flicks her wing, so soft
She shivers at the unearthly tinge
Of losing hope and finding death
So subtle, so simple, so thin
She hugs the stem, the bumble bee
And transcends earthly misery.
Below, the desert now laments
The loss of a persistent friend
The bumble bee, he liked her near
She kindled fire for his tear,
And touched his world of tragedy,
With spurts of hopeful agony.
“Oh bumble bee,” thus goes his plea,
“Do come again and visit me
Without your flutter in my midst,
I’m just dismay and sun and mist,
Your beauty is what people see-
Against my poetic misery.”
And now, he’s desert, dry and stiff
Devoid of deeper metaphor,
No sting pines for a lonely whiff
No wings flap and flutter and whirr,
The desert lies, a barren sea
Without his faithful bumble bee.
Twelve midnight madness. Not to be confused with good poetry.