1724

Six combs clipped for our coven, 

A harmonious balm-bathing in unity. 

Burnt ov beeswax, 

Sweet bindings fill autumn jar. 

Madhava caller, 

Stinging through words once screamed by Horapollo. 

Contrivance, Commodiousness, 

A symbol ov Industry. 

From the highest seraph in the heavens, 

To the lowest reptile ov the dust: 

"Go tell the bees ov this passing. . ." 

Landing on lips touched, birthing a poet 

From the buzzing snore found in Mycenaean sleeping. 

Embalmed by the Thriae 

Preserved by the fae: their one queen. 

Anointed in parting by royal offering. 

A mead undrunk, summer pollens, untouched. 

A nectar made for the harvest season. 

A wash to the skin, to be wrapped in final linen, 

Persephone's children, singing: 

O' queen of those below 

The black, the gift, the laurel, 

The gold, the dripping, the gilding, 

Hades laughing, Apollo kneeling.