I am a little worker bee,
Who fumbles while she works,
And bears the weight of her duty,
Until her wings are hurt.

Her house thinks her a stranger,
Her uniforms a smile,
She doesn’t see the danger,
While she walks the extra mile.

Her eyes are purple ivory,
As her night knows little sleep,
Though her stomach may be empty,
She cannot seem to eat.

She knows that she is dying,
But still she carries on,
And her wings will keep on flying,
Long after she is gone.

You know,
I used to be in tune.
Every part of me.
Even my hair.
The wind, its metronome.
I remember its fractal pace
Across my skin.
My hands,
Spiders across the keys.
Netting patterns
And devouring their wisdom.
My heart,
A cathedral to sound.
The beat of the universe
Pulsing through everything.
And me,
My soul,
Surfing those vibes
With fingers
And fire.
Like mercury.
Like lightening.

freedom.

But Now,
there are too many cracks
In the cathedral windows.
Too many stains.
Too many bricks thrown through.
The music still comes though.
A crooked and umbral thing.
Etching the patterns of sadness
into my Eyes,
with the shards of memories.
And I am so very tired
of being
Blind.

I am summoned
With others
All walks and sheens
Colors and creeds
All the same
But never met

We shiver
In Various stages of boredom
Half lidded eyes
Opened suddenly in disgusted salute
To the wet hacking of a dying old miser
Or that disembodied voice
A wraith
Whos pleasant words
Drip with the undeniable fear
Of wasting away
On this cheap throne I've been displaced to,
Or being brought to bare
In some jade kings court.
Made to don a jesters hat
But told to keep the bells silent
And our emotions, our humanity still
While being forced to feed on the horrors
Of civilization so that we may better
Judge the complexity of one life
In a time frame whos picture within
Is too small to be anything but abstract.

This drought of the living time
An infinity to my blood
My bones even twitch at it nervously
Begging for the freedom
Of the common fools
 as we twelve,
The demi gods,
must choose what to do with the remnants
of one desiples plate
of under decided decisions
In a life that most have never known
And even fewer wouldn't trade
a half buried pile of cat turds for.

I guess he didn't know
that we are free
as long as we Bow low enough
Not to be seen

And so we sit low
Staring at a message
A countdown
A simple marker to represent
The life we give in the hopes of
Being let back into what ever cells
We have built for ourselves