The nonsense that happens with lack of sleep

And this is my inspiration this great Sunday morning:

The Hornet’s nest

Love’s severest sting

Starts at the chest

And rides on the wing

Of a hornet and its horde

In a nest, placed firmly away from the heart

And on the top of your head.

“Move and you’re dead!”

So you catch a little breath

Couldn’t even move the breadth

Between one foot to the next.

Do not move, under any pretext.

You hear the rumble of tiny insect feet,

Their song, a threatening mumble,

Enough to make your humble servant bumble,

And the nest goes down in a tumble.

You’re stung.

Your eyes hurt for falling on the fruit you found juiciest

Your nose, inflamed, for being doped on your choice of perfume

Your ears are swollen, for listening to the buzz that meant everything and nothing

Your lips and tongue, bitten, for want of more intoxication; nectar; sweetness: Crushing bites

The hardest thing about being bitten

Is that the sensation is very real

But ones still returns and tests it with zeal

The stings still prove to be real

But still never lose their appeal

And so, like a curious child who has never been stung

You dive in again

Happy and sprung

Louella Mahabir

21st. December, 2014

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~ by louella001 on December 21, 2014.

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