The Whisper of the Hive

I look at the world like a hive without a king. Bees are buzzing, slowly losing souls.

Each of us drifts within the swarm, not even knowing it's a flight through others' words.

The university, the bank, the stage, three wings of a single shape.

The media sing like bees in sunlight, and every voice sounds so familiar. There is no plot,

only the dance, the rhythm of shared interests and phrases. No tyrants here, just mirrors maze,

where the world gets lost inside itself. When one tone bends out of key,

another soon will fix the song. The swarm repairs itself again to always sound like

truth. It isn't power. It's the movement of air, not a scream,