Anger Is A Stone Cast Into A Wasps Nest

 

Spreading honeyed words

with a silver knife tongue

in some strange world

where the pollen

is not collected by the bees

but, rather, wasps

who gather in their hives

and plan the traitor stings

that will silence

honest men.

 

The annoying drone,

the caustic buzz,

the honeycomb

of politics

clogged up

by sticky wax

that crumbles

the flimsy hexagon

and stifles the larvae

of worker’s hopes.

 

This is what

they have become,

these men and women

of empty words.

Destroyers of dreams.

Tainting their class

with traitorous actions

unbecoming of the elected

and sullying the mead

with bitter vinegar.

 

And what of me?

What of us?

Will these spiteful

Yellowjackets

take heed of majorities

or propagate

their sickly, sweet lies

until they are born

unto bland policies

of mutant socialism.

 

They will lay

their parasitic eggs,

these pests.