The Beehive Of A Mental Drift

This cycle, recurs on
and on.

A minute to waste, an
hour of hate.

I transform to a plural
of diverse characters,

the one who gets lonely,
or the loud mouth like a
threatening enemy.

It numbs the bones,
freezes the heart,
drags the mind to the pit.

Each circumstance becomes
a question.

Sleep suspends like a
needle by the thread.

Horses aren’t flowers.
Rainbows are never grayed.

I look back at my past,
see the child slides secretly
to the beehive of a mental drift.




About chester maynes

poet, and a lover of music and books.
This entry was posted in Poetry. Bookmark the permalink.

2 Responses to The Beehive Of A Mental Drift

  1. shafiqrafi says:

    Relatable. Love the images!

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