The Queen Bee
A fountain of dryness
Deserts flow cloud belly to the arid brown.
Inside the fountain, the bottom of zest,
The penny lay await, eye wide, no dreams died.
Here comes the mistress
In garments to her knees
Duchess of Fountain: the town of keys,
An elegance of pinkness, woman of sun.
Inside the high fountain
Between a thousand coins, pennies
Sits three
peaceful keys.
One with a tooth lodged hinged.
The mistress, Queen of bees. hands on
Oval mouth falls
with teeth shedding from wingless bees.
The second key lay tangled in green weeds
The head weld with an iced crown.
Alas, she is the mistress of bees. She is crowned.
The bees are helpless, they must bow down.
And largely to the left of her gold dress,
Like a morgue sleeper, is the biggest key -
Rough as a murder, it sleeps
With a heart on its head, jailed constrictor.
The town bees open wide as the moon.
Their hearts gears murmur softly.
The mistress has control.
She stares at the sun.
Smile heavy
Dust off her keys
Teeth all gone but hearts lay flat
Declaring her crown.
The fountain is flowing
The bees are working
They hear the keys
They are rattling.
Copyright © Marcus Bailey | Year Posted 2016
|