This life is
a shaky construction,
made of
brief punctuations
of sweetness in an
endless run-on sentence
of ache.
There is no guarantee
that the journey
will be worth the grief
in the final summary.
There is only
the knowing
that no matter your struggle,
there are hundreds
of someones
who would give it all up
just to trade their trouble
for yours,
that no matter how sturdy
the foundation,
every castle crumbles
to dust
in the end,
that no matter how dynastic
the blood,
we are all made
into beggars
eventually—
knocked to our knees
in the face of
awe almighty,
that we have no ultimate control;
that no matter the planning
and precautions taken,
unspeakable terror awaits us.
There is only
the longing,
the ghost-trace
of the taste
of honey
on our remembering
tongues,
the way we pray
like so many ladies-in-waiting
for its sugared return,
the unending buzz-hope of
our homeless bumble-dance
from jasmine blossom
to lavender bud.
This hunger
is what is meant
to keep
our hearts beating
until our sentence is complete,
all our time served,
until we are liberated from this
prison-hive,
having sacrificed everything
in service to the queen.
***
Photo: “Not just any old bumble bee….” by 2jaysjoju
