A Bee

[Poem XXV]

             I.

Woe to she that meets
the tip of my sword;
woe to he that greets
his bane in my horde.
Dare not provoke
or bear the stoked
brunt of an irate swarm
that bequeaths a
relentless harm.

              II.

Beware! beware!
My wrath, my stare!
Though I be small in size
and the sight of me
scoffed at so carelessly,
my resolve is rare,
and my voice will deafen
when loudly it blares.
And when I strike—
and I strike with might!—
my enemies will know,
before the height
of their misery
and that of my rage,
that what I promised
and meant was true:
I bring a thing that
has been since the
dawn of the first age,
before men knew
what they know—
or could even know
at all. This thing
I bring, in my sting,
shall be yours, even
if but for a while;
a thing that reason
cannot dispel
nor attempt to repel.
So beware! beware!
I bring you a hell,
to remind you of
just what you are.

M.M. — Februarius MMXII