Drones in droves, carving clones the bees multiply,
A carpenters home, infested with yellow and black.
Humming, brimming under the soft colored sky,
Trying to find individuality: a sting in a needle stack.
Wooden shed dwellers, a honey-dripped maze - true.
Violent huddles and swarms; crawling, itching skin.
Poisoned honey. Against the grain: bleeding anew,
Bleeding within. Hovering over an open bottle of Gin.
Bee's minds complex over work, to the point
of ignoring beauty around them.
Such inferior things, working together so purely,
whom can surely debate against this truth?
Bland senses of beings failing to think of
a greater meaning, for they focus only of what
lies ahead of them.
Tongues confused, speech is stressed with anguish
Never looking to the past, to help them within
present or near future. Work overloads minute
thoughts, leaving no space for happiness.
So is there a meaning to these bees lifes...
Without purpose?
To slave away and make honey...but for what reason?
Is it inevitable to complex and comprehend a greater truth
to such a minute and unimportant fact...
It seems we miss out on life...
The hive creates a sense of security that I love to hate
Because no one of us is in that one individual mind state
We take orders and most of the time we do as we are told
Is there even a purpose to this way of life, now break the mold
Why must we always work of the betterment of the hive?
I want to do things on my own and I want to survive
But among all things, Im tired of this meaningless existence
Because repetition is solemn and life looks great from a distance
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Submission Name: The Hive
