Neither the blessed bees, nor the Angels of Art 
cursed us with this damming disease of gilded glue, 
this slow flow of deafening silence, sadness 
and slow demise. 
I cannot hear your pounding heart, Your love 
is muffled and distant like a corner of your heart
abandoned and deserted me for some other
vaguer cause. I am the keeper of the hives, 
maintaining sanity through hearing the honey
soft and slowly running
— away