Reusing old graves

Some of your own blood

Nectar of your soul

To build this nest

This stinging canister

An assembly line of skeletal remains and burning wings

Pushing little armies on the left

Pulling little armies on the right

To march themselves out of existence

Life is a pesticide

Kills the flowers

Kills the connections

Keeps you working overtime

Just to hold on to a place where you can shuffle off this mortal coil