Past East Street, farther than the Parkway drive
Where the trodden path ends; where ends the 8 to 5,
Where the strained eyes close, where the dreamers thrive,
In its 5ft. glory lies my lair, The Hive.

An oxymoron, the contradiction
Where else shall you cease, to exist?
To be shackled, and freed?
If not on your bed, but in your head?

Thus, on a pulpy heavenly plate,
Neck up; so to goes my crown, my glory
The what ifs and the would be;
Along with the ayes and nays to bury
To traverse the beyond to inifinity
To, and remain sedate
Amidst the activity.