knowing any movement is always in sync.
The one inside the mirror
and the second one who will not look
into her flat eyes of glass
as not to see beyond the gaze
of the one she wants to hide away.
Stay reflective, how others view
the façade of beatwing,
her beauty of flight, until the landing
when barbed legs grasped flesh,
a thousand beestings of pain,
the poison once entered
has traced the path of blood
to settle into the heart;
now she craves these hurt worthy jabs.
She is not what others see,
a nest builder, papering thoughts away;
the taste of honey has been snatched
through the use of smoke,
the calming fog of gather and take.
Broken by that one stare
directly into the eyes, s hattered
the pieces have fallen into a puzzled mix,
one that will take seven seasons
to put back together, yet that that is seen
will never quite be the same.