Hues of Home

Sometimes it has to be a wasp nest,

Grey, worn, torn, colorless,

Though functional nonetheless,

Barely held together at first glance,

By spit shine and elbow grease,

Cruel mandibles tearing away

At everything deemed unnecessary or weak,

Sometimes you venture out,

Bright and loud in vibrant yellow,

Proud of a uniform way of being,

Told from the beginning this is how it is,

How it has to be, cutting, ripping, tearing,

All to keep one way of life going,

The colorful caterpillars, beetles

or fallen carrion,

a defenseless buffet for the uniform yellow

Swarm,

Away from this,

how is one to survive alone?

Sometimes it’s in vibrant hues,

A golden beehive and fragrant flowers,

Still in uniform yellow, but all the less vile,

Gooey dripping honey to find comfort in,

But here the vibrance is untarnished,

No tearing, ripping, cutting maws,

Just a patient collection with time and effort,

It’s still held together

by spit shine and elbow grease,

Still a uniform yellow parade,

The difference is the method,

The countenance of being,

The buzz and hum of droning on,

The choice is not for wasps or bees,

Their nature and nurture is set,

The choice however is left for you,

Not stone but mudded tracks,

Keep going through the same motions,

Your path becomes set,

Catch yourself early and maybe,

Just maybe,

You can still pull yourself free,

After only after,

can you choose the color of your nest,

Be it wasp or rather bee,

Be it grey or vibrant hues