when you were sleeping a bee made honey

in your eyes, then forgot about it.

a speck in the field of flowers you dreamt of

was that bee, dripping with nectar.

it buzzed past the nightmare flytrap

growing at the base of your mind—

when you sleep, what kept you awake

does not sleep— it shoots its pollen into

the dreamsky, digs its roots down dreamsoil.

at dawn the bee narrowly escaped

your jagged waking. its sting tore through

the ether of maya that separated metaphor

from metonymy, space from time, mind from body.

the nightmare, with its legions of climbers

and creepers, slouched through the hole.

the honeycomb in your eyes, imbued

with a part of that bee's soul, saw this

and squeezed out all its sweetness, trapping

the nightmare between being and becoming.

you lived on, broke down, normally

until one day chainsaws and bulldozers

hacked the forest down. the homeless bee

wandered and in wandering remembered

its other home. it called to its soul in the comb

but all it could offer was the remaining tasteless

water, a solvent it hoped would be soluble to sorrows.

that is how the tears came to your eyes.

why else would you cry for no reason?

there was a reason but you didn't know it

there was a bee you didn't see. there is a nightmare

sleeping in a way you should never dream of.

~ ajay

24/5/2022