In the Cities of the Bees the Queen whispers unceasingly

 Welcome and well met my children

 and you feel her as the sun all gold and glowing

 and you sink into the heat softening, changing

your bones pliable with the songs flowing thick and heavy like cream

 like ancient cherry liqueur and you drink it in 

you submerge until the sweetness and the richness covers and fills your marrow

 your memories

and your eyes and ears overflow and your heart fills near to bursting with the spice and velvet

plum purple and berry scents 

the Hives are tall towers of ivory and coppergold and black and crystal

  slender spires reaching into the clouds

while below the warm and flowing rivers of wax wind silently beneath and through them  

heavy and fragrant as over ripened grapes powdery white 

the Hivesong lives in each whirring breath taken in

held and released 

the humming rises scattering

 creating as it goes and the bees bow and sing in reverence 

and spin yet more tales on their bevelled wings and whirl them into the open air 

to dance with the green and gold

turtles turn their watery faces toward the sound and sink their claws in mud to paint the river reeds with fragile stripes 

and signs to point the way

and the herons pull the humming into their dreams of gleaming white down

 and one tiny feather slips through

and floats over the city where it becomes


itself part of 

a new street breaking through the stone

and all the city thrums with excitement for its birth

sleeping seeds are woken by the vibrations

the tones sounding deep as a bell and they stretch toward the scent of the stars all splashed across the sky

 and you look down at your new body all smoothed and gleaming like caramel

 like melting glass

and if you could see beneath the surface you’d find a tracery

 a pixilated tattoo of delicate markings on the new spine of this tale you are becoming

 your story, your street

and they bring you gifts

such small tributes that these tiny worshippers can handle

fingernail parings, seed pearls, amber globules of pine resin, shining fish scales

 and you take them all 

gather them in

and love them each and every one 

and they brim over with the joy of it and sing like the most diligent of angels

as days and seasons pass marked in the polishing of striped snail shells 

and the carapace of beetles peacock blues and emeralds running together like oil in a rain puddle

  the city holds its own close

 and waits for another new street to appear 

to write its name crackling in the parchment maps

and another Queen of loving fragrance

 whispers and silk to be welcomed and adored

 and impossible colors dreamt of and made real

sung real

in the Hivesong


in the morningshined, breathing streets

flowing with ink

with wax and honey 

in the Cities of the Bees



About chimerapoet

I write. I write a lot. A. LOT. There are times I am half blind with a sentence ricocheting off the walls of my stupid, cant be shut off to save my life, brain. I am miserable until I get it down on paper. Punch it up a bit. Usually cross out half of it. And then breathe. Relax. Only to do it all again..... But I just thought that was me. How I am. Not a writer....noooo...not me. Writers are.....writing people. People Who Write. REALLY write. Write things that matter. All grown up very important things. I am just a scribbler of sorts. And I was/am content with that....if it's true, well then....a scribbler am I. Until the thought wormed its way in to my brain (the furtive sneaky bitch) that maybe...just maybe...that is writing. My style. My strange way. But....still writing. So here I am at the dance. Not sure I know any of the moves and the music is entirely mine. But.....only one way to find out. Would you care to join me?
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