My Summer As The Beekeeper

Broken armed glasses dangled
by my broken finger
during my summer as the beekeeper
I was a finger above my heart
circling the sound of the hive
flying away in the distance.

The bees, they flew
away from the shatter
of a bone in the hand
broken open for getting
everything they cried for
but never what they deserved.

Goodbye waving,
so as to never beg for honey.