The Hive That Hungers

Beneath the moon, where shadows creep,

A hive lies waiting, dark and deep.

Its honey black, its whispers low,

A song of hunger few may know.

—

The Queen sits still, her body wide,

Her children crawl, her drones abide.

Not bees, not beasts, not things of grace,

But something twisted—shifting face.

—

The workers hum, their bodies thin,

Their hollow eyes stretched pale as skin.

They do not sting, they do not fly,

They crawl inside—they make you die.

—

A boy once dared to break the veil,

To seek the hive, to lift the tale.

He touched its walls, he heard its call,

And in his mind, he felt it crawl.

—

They filled his lungs, they drank his screams,

They whispered things from broken dreams.

His mouth poured wax, his bones grew tight,

His heart beat once—then bled to night.

—

Now in the hive, he stands so tall,

His voice is lost, he hears the call.

The Queen still sings, her feast not done,

She waits for more—you’d better run.

—

For in the dark where horrors thrive,

You’ll hear the hum… the living hive.