Today The World Could Change


A bee has no butt,
It is judged by its stinger.
Has no other colors besides black and yellow.
Perhaps additional, in the future, after all the plan is tactical.
Thirteen stripes, dreadful to encounter, much worse to inherit.
Do we move more slowly in the dead of winter?
Do we gain a momentum, like the bees when they gather,
nectar impatiently from lonesome flowers,
in the softest breeze of all of summer?
Beehives, constructed high, on sturdy branches.
Does an abundance of honey create more power or elevate chaos?
Unaware of the bears that claw the air,
directly underneath, frustrated for hours, enticed by the smell.

The question once was, if we had wings, would we too buzz?

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