A Bee In Its Winter

2 weeks ago by @merdafuit

Lyrics

The windchill index has little and less
to do with the actual nature of
the hoarfrost riming over my ceaseless
and furtively beating sickening love
song that only come breaking through
the ice-kissed panes overlooking the
expanse of snow and wind and you
standing there, arms out, a picture of
stress, steam rising from your overburdened
body, guts writhing and roiling and tying
in knots in ways occult to the learned
and every bit as seeming true without lying.

So we sit and scream and beg and cry
and time comes around where we’re tired
of going about the same old same try
with the same lack of results and liars
pretending the care even a whit about
the striving of a dying bee in winter,
looking for any kind of way out
of this labyrinthine gauntlet or
at least some hope of a cure that might
in some way or another make up for
the many lost days and sleepless nights
that have made up of the bulk of your
month after month after year after year
where there’s nothing like hope to keep
you moving forward without any fear
that this next test won’t be the last deep
dive into the abyss that seems to make up
your insides. Would they could be your
outsides in a way that would let us be, a
way to take them apart and give them a pour
of cleaning solvent or maybe a panacea.

But nothing like nothing will happen again
leaving us wanting for results and answers
hoping against every last hope for a when
where we might find an end to these horrors
that make believe we’re alive for long enough
to make it through another minute, or
hour or day or week. But maybe through
this fruitless striving we will ourselves find
a way back to the easy peace of summer
mornings where nothing wicked was behind
our late rising, and you could be as you once were.

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