honeybee
character study; use of foxglove in honey, not like a proper arrhythmia medication
Bubbling. A small globule, typically hollow and light.
Thin films materialize from thin air blown to iridescence containing empty thoughts colored rainbow only when dazzled in sun. Sun that burns bright and passionate to a point where fault lines form and grasp at stable feet. Burning as oceans steam the same as a rice cooker opened too early, flash points on even ground that slip away right within their grasp yet they fail to see. Over and over, awareness was never offered in every sense of the word where touch is scalding, sight is red-hot and sound is smothered. A display of relief.
Too much, too little, each time they rise to look at a sky stripped of turbid waves, gentle cotton pushed aside for only a few moments of color, clear, tantalizing and they could grasp at something. Only for a few moments. Before the senses are consumed and they are left, bubbling.
Bubbling, something that lacks firmness, solidity, or reality.
The feeling again, except the tiny pricks of vessels obstructed and other clear never seeing deformation are only patches. Languid, cold and burning in the way that only creeps up to them, a nuisance. Those pantry ants counting their steps begging to consume even themselves and you freeze everything you have, and everything you consume, becomes winter. Cold and burning. The bite of honey contained through herbal tea crawling down the center of their chest is sweet. Saccharine. The bees indulge in the new and certain, of pollen seeded with digoxin desaturated alongside mint dragging in a bitter breath, lemongrass to rid of thoughts—why think?
Set on the fresco of brilliant rosehips, merlot stirred with the clatter of a wooden spoon as worries wane among the withering fruits of their ambitions. Wine for their woes? They would never be so damn desperate.
Bubbling. Isolated experiences, a homogenous supported community.
The only aid has them buoyed, threaded high among the clouds moving along with the platforms that vanish and appear at a moment’s hesitation. With that hesitation the thread is tripped. The stars are theirs. They own the bright glowing spots imprinted with their very eyes, they were illuminating, now stolen and dull and falling and finally, there was never a moment where their feet grazed a gentle tickle of grass so long and prickling, nor dirt that sunk into skin desperate to live with not yet a corpse but still, they rotted. They rotted until the final bite, the final sip, to quench their thirst for everything without moving a single finger.
A balancing act tipped, shattered flora scented fresh, sickening, a vivid merlot rippling around their feet. Not wine. Blood as wine and bread as flesh torn through with ease they lurch forward one moment, the next dragged against the cherrywood flooring.
One cough.
Another cough.
Bubbling, to borrow enough energy to destabilize your entire being.