The mind- the reincarnate queen,
my pens- the worker bees,
oozes waxen flakes of inspiration,
both devilish and angelical.
The ink creates a home
in a soon-to-be-discovered honeycomb
creviced on a sheet of paper;
I am the creator.

A worker dances about;
a new food source she has announced
after her lengthly travels
down memory lane- they lay unraveled.
Figure-eights my pen does make,
recording messages that were once said
from the time I was born
to current events not long ago:
from unrequited Drone-like lovers
to the scents of my favorite flowers,
this I can write-
whenever and however I like.