From one hierarchy to another,
He serves a different Queen now:
Commanding the workers and the drones
That move as one mind.

He is armoured against attack:
He does not feel the sting
When surrounded by hostility.

The buzzing is constant. It echoes
In his ears still, after so many years,
Growing in volume, separating into
A thousand noises as he nears,
Engulfing him, overwhelming him.

(Sweat forms. Eyes blink. Breath sharp,
He feels. Dead air. Dry heat.
Sun high. Long miles. Dark blood.)

Honey is sweet, and yet for him
The smell sweats, aching sugar
Cleansed by his charges; his nose
Stops playing before he even notices
The scent is there.

Go out, collect, bring home, all for
Some higher purpose none of them
Understands; not even the Queen.
They appear to serve her, but
She is their slave.

(A noise. A crack. A bang. A lack
Of inhibition, instinct taking over, kill
Or be killed, run or be left, cut or be bled
Dry, drained of life, soul slipping
With breath from mind and body,
Scattered like the desert sand,
Wild like a desert storm,
Cold like the desert night.)

All those eyes. You can never tell which way
They look, what they see. Can they know?
Does the collective soul feel his as
Its brother? He is armoured against attack:
He does not feel the sting.

06/01/2016

Posted on 07/31/2016
Copyright © 2025 Richard Vince