It is very important to note something: This poem is not based off of real-life experience. The prompt was to write a poem based off of a news story, this was not something that had happened to me.
Y’know it’s a strange thing,
Dying I mean, it’s just
Something you can’t stop thinking about.
Something that blurs the lines.
I remember lying in that tree,
Midsummer, the bark was warm
Like a blanket left by the fire.
Smelled good too, that smell warm wood gets,
Of sap & life flowing all around you.
The light dancing in the leaves,
People think bees buzz,
Might be true if you have
One, maybe two, but
When you’ve got hundreds…
It ain’t a buzz.
It’s an animal, a physical force,
Like the very air
Is trembling with
a wrathful purpose.
It consumes everything
Everything is reduced,
a golden sea of noise
Then you get a spark,
And that sea,
Catches on fire. A single sting
Hurts like a red-hot poker.
Then you get another,
It was as if that dancing light
Had become hard and sharp,
Driving itself beneath my skin
Flames flickering under a patchwork sky
That wasn’t dying though.
Dying was when that light,
Softened by its own heat, spread
Filling me a lazy summer glow.
There weren’t any screams of pain or regret,
Just that droning, like nature’s lullaby
And the sleepy warmth of
A comforter on a winter’s night.
Dying wasn’t the worst part,
That felt good to be honest.
The worst part was waking up,
The light refrozen,
A field of briars grown throughout
Your limbs, your chest, your eyes.
A body isn’t used to that much purity;
It takes time to re-acclimate
To the heaviness of flesh.
Y’know what the funny part is?
We were the ones that started it.
Those bees would have let us be
If we’d had let them be.
Then I wouldn’t be lying here,
Dreaming of a trembling tree,
Armed with golden spikes, and
Singing the siren’s song.