The only reason bees die
is old age.
Tragedies in viscous gold,
sun-tipped coal and sweetness.
As we dig penny-sized graves, please,
pray for our martyrdom.
You’ll see that rich earth always
outweighs milky wings.
We know thorns and thimbles feel
the same when we’re asleep.
Play the church bells, brass and shale;
can you hear them now? Wait, WAIT!
A queen sits like she is ten-thousand,
toes pointed, joints crystallized.
Gravity and industry conquer
lost promise lands.
And so we dance and sing,
mouths full of crushed ecstasy.
It is so beautiful and frightening
to hear soft music with angry ears.
We see Icarus, wax and gleaming bones
aflame in the hands of the clock.
The only reason we all die
is old age.