I float
floating on wings of honey bees
tasting the sweet nectar of their movements,
we see them fly,
but they dance to rhythms
our minds have chosen to forget.
The fluttering of unrequited love
as they move through the skies
of our existence with no cares, and loving
the sound they make as they whip the wind into Mashed Potatoes.
I love the breeze.
I float into empty hallways
and closets where dreams were housed in flowers,
but that has changed
because there are no flowers that can grow there anymore
and the crayon drawings have been washed from the walls.
I float but the bee tells me that I grow heavy and that my imagination has turned into concrete.
I once dreamt that the honeybee would fly me to the moon,
but now I dream of paid bills and problems that most don't understand.
I float...
floated on dreams of honey bees
I tasted the nectar of their innocence in the form of honey trees.
I watched them dance
and turn wind into mashed potatoes,
but now I stand in front of a piece of paper sitting down
with a pencil unsharpened,
waiting for my honey bee
but not writing.