Tales From Thermopylae: ANGHELLIC PT I- THE SKY

There once flew a bee

Over a vast floral field

Busy sprinkling his magic dust over petals

In return for the nectar they wield.

Answered only to the queen

Classed a worker, but royal

Seen as mechanical, but passionate

Taken a slave yes, but loyal.

Soon, he began to question his allegiance

For there did exist a rational soul

“What difference do I make?

How important is my role?”

For the first time in his life

He raised his head to the skies

Stared at the untouched infinity

Through a thousand confused eyes.

He wandered away into the woods

And that’s where he first met her

She was a pretty plant

But had a dying flower.

“Bring me your purest pollen”, she said

“And I’ll give you the elixir of immorality

Ambrosia, drink of the Gods

You can be more than just a bee.”

“Give me the pollen

And I will free you from your queen

You and me together

We will rule the green.”

The bee had fallen for the trap

Bewitched by the plant’s spell

Delighted by his newfound Nirvana

But was falling straight into hell.

So he flew back to the hive

And stole a dozen sacks of spore

Thought nothing much of his queen anymore

Just an unworthy little whore.

For the last time in his life

He raised his head to the skies

Jeered at the vacuous emptiness

Through a thousand hypnotized eyes.

“Did you fetch the fairy dust?” The plant asked

“Here it is” the bee handed it over

“But I didn’t catch your name.”

“Venus” he heard her whisper.

He was aroused by the aroma

Enamored by her poisonous pretense

Drunk in these dramatic delusions

Forgetting everything else.

“Within these chambers”

The plant opened her leaves

“Awaits your destiny

Now step in if you will please.”

So the bee flew inside

The spell had broken and he had awoken

But the velvet walls changed into spikes

And shut him in like an iron maiden.

Before he could scream why

The acid had begun to flow

Like in a witch’s cauldron brew

His wings were the first to go.

He buzzed helplessly in pain

As the thorns dug in

He saw his undoing with the angel of death

As he tasted her lava of lust seething.

With all the great will of life

He silenced his cries

In an attempt to break his fall

By closing a thousand blinded eyes.

He thought not of his queen

Not of the meadow nor of his mother

But of the clear true sky

Which grew darker and darker

Till the dusk broke into night.


Our 'angel' will return in Part II of Anghellic.

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