You crawl across the unsealed cells of a hexagonal hive
that's mounted in the corner beneath the roof like an
outdoor speaker. You move your smooth, sleek, shiny
tripartite body from chamber to chamber conducting
a final crib check in a collapsing colony. This is your
last crawl. Do you know that? Early spring I watched
your mated queen put up her pendant throne as she
awaited the birth of her winged workers. In late summer
her majesty wielded absolute vespid power over an ever
expanding catacomb queendom. But now it is winter.
The queen is gone. You are the lone drone, the noble one,
the one that didn't fly away and leave the queen regnant behind -
smoky black wings and multiple stings - the last courtier
crawling over a masticated monarchy. This is your last crawl.
Do you know that? The winter is your guillotine.
I am here to catch your loyal head.