The End of Gray

I am a bee who has left the hive

and doesn’t like flowers.

Doesn’t like their colors.

Doesn’t like their smell.

Doesn’t like their texture.

Ew. They just irk me.

I hate the flowers. I hate the honey. I hate the nectar.

I hate the sweetness.

I don’t like the hive and I don’t like the honey.

I don’t like the tribe and I don’t like the table.

I don’t like the community and I don’t like the comfort.

I’m so uncomfortable and I love hating it.

So I journey off into the wind and the green horizon fading into gray. I search for the end of the gray–the origin of gray.

The grayest gray. My home.

I am at home in the cold. It makes me feel warm.

I’d like to wrap up in the warmth of old ice cubes of lonely.

Build a fort out of the ancient stones I find in the Gray City where I will conquer and rule no one.

Disallow fire. Nothing burns.

Except the yearning in my heart

to return to the hive.

Off on another journey

to old home

where I will find something new

or die on the way.


About heathencomehome

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