The Taste of What We Choose

a bee zigs through thin air,  

a philosopher, unburdened by doubt,  

buzzing truth like ancient scripture,  

honey clinging to his gut.  

below, the flies gather near rot,  

black dots, swollen with sweet filth.  

they don’t believe in nectar,  

don't hear hymns in the hive.  

the bee doesn’t circle their rank feast,  

doesn’t pause to explain light to shadows.  

he knows the sound of futility,  

the weight of wasted wings.  

mind over matter, or maybe the reverse—  

some are born to sip poison,  

to feast on shit, call it a banquet.  

he flies on, unbroken by their hunger.  

what fills you kills you slowly  

or lifts you just enough,  

but not everyone can bear sweetness,  

not everyone wants the sun.