From 52

I see myself reflections in the etchings of the bee.

Delicately outlining every query, every thought, a never ending succession of honeycombs.

This organic edifice houses the dregs, the elite, and those who are titleless.

Fly like the bees in and out of my thoughts. Find solace in my hexagonal combs.

My work can be preserved only for as long as nature allows.

She will turn me over when you are done with my hospice. She knows it is due.

She will repurpose me, you will see me reappear a distant natural subtext.

mayhaps we will meet in the hive - on some hexagonal cross section of time.