Flight of the Bumblebee
As the dew drops
from a blade of grass,
dips my head
and heaves my chest.
The recycled air
o’ brethren fallen
ignites my ire,
a primal rage.
How the moments stretch
and shrink at will;
In the present only;
neither future
nor past defined.
Beneath the surface,
you will unearth
a man, made whole.
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