My hands present as aged and weary, my flesh paper-thin and melting like an image of Salvador Dali’s, with bones like soft honeycomb, where bees cheerfully settle in. Their wings frantically beat they seek nectar from the rhythm, the rhythm, hands slowly try itching them away, off my skin, away from an arm which they travel upwards, ignoring my slow decay. Other insects join in, stinging mosquitoes, beautiful butterflies who live but three days without sin, it’s rather unlike the diaries of old, to go three days without intentional error would utterly amaze. The bees are now concerned, combatted by the wasp whose angry demeanour wishes to fight my friends, in my shin’s honeycomb land, the buzzing, the droning, whom will succeed at their intent? At securing a home of marrow-less matrimony? A fly settles on the wall of my wrist, sardonically smiling, he decides to join in the violent tryst of bee upon enemy upon melting candle-wax skin, dream-like or like a nightmare, reality is falling. In the heaviness of a veil which draws itself away from my subconscious, I'm once more myself, no more strange images, curious bees butterflies, maddened mosquitoes, wasps whom will not leave. My bones are themselves again, full and not deprived, weariness dissipated and skin almost pristine, I am alive. © 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved. Image by PollyDot from Pixabay
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Lauren M. Hancock Poetry and Prose 
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