The Fire Bees

A soul raises the smokey fire of stars
like clouds of burning bees
flashed from the energy of thoughts and feelings -
not blue, but golden -
worked privately, beneath the skin.

How we push out our wants and needs -
the unscathed ego,
disatisfied
with being 'in the moment,'
wants, wants - always more,
and plots with cunning, guile, secrecy,
to its own ends. So selfish.
So obsessed with preservation of the self -
however miserable.

Baroque sands sweep and dance
in fingerpatterns, obscure, re draw.
Watchers weep at windows art reveals,
fire bees, burn for realisation of their desires -
tender at the bone.