Poetry 117: The Glass Hive I

The Glass Hive
by Aidenn A. Spelling

I woke up one cold morning
My brown eyes wide open
Everything was glistening
Felt hopeful, felt a good omen

My clothes, freshly pressed
My black hair, trimmed nicely
A new start, I was impressed
A new space that’s quite lovely

Everyone spoke the same
Everyone walked with chins up
I ought to play the weird game
Reach for the ladder and climb up

The white desk was my refuge
In the enclosed hive of drones
A crazy turn could result in deluge
Gotta be strong, can’t throw stones

But after years of being closed in
Could feel strain, the “wring” it’s called
It burns, it tortures, it inflicts pain
It lingers day and night; haunts hot or cold

The luster that it once had
Suddenly turned dull and gray
Time cannot erase what was bad
But time gives a chance to find a way

A way out of the enclosure
A way to find a new hive
Or just land on something better
Not made of glass, I must strive


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