Within every motion is a consequence,
     for with wings there is motion.
Disturbing the flow of the world around it.

For with a sting there is but one consequence,
              a flutter of tasteful demise for oneself.
The pain on the other is fleeting,
                   for life was about on point.

But when a thousand wings flutter,
                       they move more than mountains.
for a breath when made by the many can influence
                        more than just a point made in anger.

A humble bumble bee
By the name of Timothy
Flies friskily through the trees
And sways smoothly with the breeze
For the wisping winds of winter
Are coming in a beat
So he must flee to be free
From the cold or he might freeze
So he flies to someplace warm
To a garden by the sea
Where a humble bumble bee
Can go to be a bee

i am the honeybee,
maker of the blood of the sun
i dip into the flower
and adorn myself in dusty light

they take my liquid gold
and keep it as a delicacy
forlorn, the sun will fall
i hear the honeybee’s buzzing symphony

As a drenched, drowned bee
Hangs numb and heavy from a bending flower,
So clings to me
My baby, her brown hair brushed with wet tears
And laid against her cheek;
Her soft white legs hanging heavily over my arm
Swinging heavily to my movements as I walk.
My sleeping baby hangs upon my life,
Like a burden she hangs on me.
She has always seemed so light,
But now she is wet with tears and numb with pain
Even her floating hair sinks heavily,
Reaching downwards;
As the wings of a drenched, drowned bee
Are a heaviness, and a weariness.