The Bee Factory

As they flirt with being themselves
The bee-catcher waits.
His net stinks of honey,
eyes Crunchy-Nut shaped.
Thrash thrash, ensnare,
 
ensnared.
 
they were mighty fucked off,
to find the walls were glass.
They could see themselves,
for the first time.
 
but
 
only this cheap reflection, waned,
honey-stained fingers slowly
smudged at the transparency, the
definition became,
clouded.
 
so
 
they started bouncing off the walls,
their winged fury,
laughable, loveable intensity,
fruitless bashing.

they
 
raised their voices, made
them eloquent, artistic,
brimming with life,
still just a buzz.
 
could
 
this be  
the sound of expression?
it fights the air, against
lingering extraction.
 
learn
 
said one of them  
to his mates,
‘if I try escape, I’ll be remembered,
even if I break both my wings’.