Skin flakes away like paper mache,
Within the darkness that has swallowed the day.
Left there since September,
Hiding there in mid December.
Lying there in her hollowed chest, rests a home for the bees.
An incubator created from the deceased.
Flesh gives way, revealing the colony-
Each and every bee, they are happy.
The gentle creatures rest upon her skin.
Her body a shell, a frozen in time sin.
She never felt complete, a lady barren.
Her fists clenched, her eyes staring.
Blood-clogged fingernails and throat slashed suggests
What's always been the obvious guess.
It's the mantra the family sang
When the jury refused to let him hang.
Her carcass is taxed by nature.
The toll of the weather is a sadistic satyr.
She is only a vessel to them, nothing more.
The sky weighs heavy with clouds- the rains pour.
The bees whisper their necromancy,
Echoing throughout the kingdom's hierarchy.
With them she's come alive, though not quite the same.
Like an abandoned house, with staring windowpanes.
With the rain her scent has become sour.
As time slows, as clocks drip the hour,
Obsidian cloaks the aphotic sky.
She's a protector to them when predators are nigh.
The sun shines and the trees sway.
The ground is littered with her decay.
Their low humming is a gentle caress
To a disfigured girl in her favorite Sunday dress.
Bones become as fragile as glass,
As the December winds pass.
Now in full bloom are the apple trees.
Her memory is carried away with the breeze.
It truly is glorious.
Even though murdered, she is still victorious.
The sound of bees... although the rustle of leaves smother
She bares a smile. She's finally a mother.