When Bees get Lonely

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.