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When Bees get Lonely MAG
Seven-thousand, nine-hundred-and-seventy octangular suns
and none of them were made for you.
Drunk on golden syrup
and too heavy for your own wings,
you'll drift in and out of the reality some genius named “the sky.”
Flowers tangle among each other to strangle cobwebs.
The earth's getting old and you feel like being younger.
Paint yourself yellow with scars of black
because contrast is interesting and drama is too.
Seven-thousand, nine-hundred-and-seventy octangular suns
and none of them were made for you.
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This article has 8 comments.
this was brilliant.
i have seen a lot of horrid poems on this site. this puts a majority of the over-the-top melodramatic ones to shame: you showed a great sense of control and used it to your advantage. the imagery is beautiful and the flow is right-on.
do us all a favor and don't stop writing.
