So the queen bee left the hive-
only to become a common worker bee;
at a small tawdry hive elsewhere,
buzzing gossip and providing a sting
when the mood strikes her.
I wonder what it must feel like to
plummet so low, so very quickly-
I noticed in passing she's not
happy in her new role. Simple,
trivial and yes, a bit stale. Her
nectar now sour and tart.
Maybe she shall evolve into a
killer bee now; Stinging with
her dried out quill, leaving behind
long suffering words for her signature
sting. Convinced her worker bee status
is the crux which propels the hive to
greatness.
It is just a honeycomb, you are just a bee.
Most things turn sour at some point, it's just
your turn now...
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem