there are bees in his head
No, not the soft ones
Not the bumbles or the honeys or the woods
No, the leather ones
with the jackets printed "yellow ladies" and three pronged body-talons scattered all over
No, they aren't soft
Mostly because
they're
swarming in tune to the voices in the area
floating in the atmosphere,
self aware of the lack of honey within the radius
there are bees in his head
No, they aren't soft, that's been confirmed
they are, however,
jagged
and they know how you live
on occasion they ruffle his hair, no longer sighing
however buzzing is instant and constant
even if small
there are bees in his hair
Careful not to leave sewing needle scars until the correct times, anyway
trailing his scalp, becoming his eyes
the birds on his fingertips useless to their stings
he's tired, unaware, fazed and dazed
there are bees on his body
They tickle a bit, but it isn't feather like
no, it's threatening
creating pin-prick constellations to map the sky
spelling morse-code across his thighs with their legs
whispering bitter everything's and sweet nothings into his brain
there are birds trailing his vision
They aren't pecking yet, but it's final
everywhere he steps, they chirp
and flap their wings at the sighs of the insects trailing his stomach
pecking at the parts of him that are stiff the most
there are birds in the air
and bees residing in his body
creating vile manifestation in the eyes of his beholders
clouding his vision
and though he is blindfolded, the eyes on his scalp will perceive the world of birds
and bugs
and clouding misconception
and the bees will never stop stinging
