Honeycomb

Here, again, in your solitary apiary
now a martyr of a woman
resurfaced, refined
ever more volatile
indifferent to your combs of manipulation
age old games
lost pieces, unpolished with a dusty wrapping

I continue to suck you dry
for that warmth of honey
oozing down the stinger slit of my throat
as you play stand by

Beekeeper, bastard of a thousand hills
of sprouted flowers withered and unkempt
like the mother who bore me
also repulsed by you
and past pleads and promises
I will never be

Picked and thrown
the merciless child that plucked my stinger
and severed my wings

Your flowers remain dehydrated
a will of nature
for creating me