I am of the poetic heart and tender inclinations
Unlike the Queen bee who will accept any old drone
due to the biological and reproductive imperative
(that evil, evil, little fucking blonde tart;
this little Queen is extremely discerning and only has
a place in her heart for that one and only special bee.
The nectar of love and life is for him and him alone.
The fundamental motivation of this Queen is not
pleasures of the flesh ~ they are only a bonus to her
true nature, which is to be with her soul’s desire, her
eternal mate, her confidante; the drone who compliments
her being and enriches her existence.
He might think that he has to perform to a standard,
but he assumes wrong!
This Queen values soul and spirit over sexual prowess.
SO, BEWARE DRONE!
You may have to re assess your way of thinking.
Your value lies not so much in what you do,
but in who you intrinsically are!
This Queen knows your value.
Now as her mind dies
how frequent were
his wrong doings
and his grief is palpable
Her delicate feminine wrist
once cracked through his torment
Now as her memory fades
and his recaptures,
he holds it tenderly
weeping at its beauty
Little did he realise
as the brandy, burning
splashed his eyes
as her anger peaked
with his surprise,
that in thirty years
her flame would die
and with her empty shell
he would lie
eyes still burning
brandy-less, they cry
Sage is lying on her back – stretched out on the freshly cut grass which circles like an amphitheatre around the Botanic gardens bird lake. The clouds are floating past like elongated balls of cotton wool. They’re white then light grey, then an ominous charcoal. They string out like fairy floss being pulled apart in blobs and strands. The slowness of the dense whites are passed by the speediness of wispy charcoal filaments and in the distant background the steady towering banks of cumulous hold fort over the dancing and cavorting foreground. And all the while it is the earth turning in unison with the gusting wind which assists their passing. The dank smell of stagnant water mingled with bird droppings hangs in the warm afternoon air. It took a while to find a spot not littered with bird poop but she was determined to think and reflect on how she was going to deal with the latest issue at hand. She studies the passing fiesta of clouds as she ponders the gravity of yesterday’s death battle.
‘Well, it was either me or, him and who would have thought that she could turn things around like she did?’
He’d planned it well – his modus operandi – not a fail-safe plan but a cunning one. Daring even. For there was an assumption on his part that she would be of the mind to investigate how and why there were legs protruding from the undergrowth. That in her curiosity, she would wander off the track and into his trap. Someone else might have scampered off in fear or gone to fetch help. Which makes her think that he may have known something about her and her particular mentality. ‘How so?’, she wonders.