The Mythology of a Poet

(Self-Portrait–A Veritable Fable)

The HoneyBeeBard

Always in search of Nectar.

Buzzes pretty. Stings hard. Dies for love.
He drinks from divine bloom and sings pollen prayers.

“I’m always chasin’ nectar—last time it was a beehive! My face swelled like a Shakespearean tragedy!”

“Buzzin’ ‘round the blossoms, dear boy—till I got swatted by a jealous husband.”

“Buzzin’ around beauty, spreadin’ verse like pollen—and gettin’ swatted by life every damn time.”

“He hums around my garden, singing sonnets to my shadow. Sweet, but he stings himself trying to touch the throne.”

“He buzzeth round fair blossoms, drunk on rhyme.
And dieth gladly for one kiss in time.”

“You come to me with sticky hands and trembling verse.
You call me sweet.
But nectar is earned, not stolen.
And not every bloom is for you.”

The Nectar Seeker

Drawn to sweetness, doomed to sip poison.

“Harvesting Sweet Truths from Silent Blooms.”

Drawn by scent, guided by fate, fed by gods.

“They said follow the scent of love… I ended up in a candle shop cryin’ into lavender!”

“Another one chasing sweetness like it’s salvation. He forgets—I control the bloom.”

“I seek nectar the way some seek truth—through lies, libations, and very poor decisions.”

“Nectar? You mean desire? Yeah, I chased it—turned out it was just corn syrup and perfume.”

“A rogue who followeth fragrance through the glade,
And findeth oft a thorn where blooms were laid.”

“You chase pleasure like a child chasing fireflies—
failing to see:
it’s not the light that loves you,
it’s the dark that lets you see it.”

The Panegyric to a Muse

In glorious praise of worshipful words.

“Celebrate Inspiration in Every Verse.”
Praise in every breath, obsession in every line.
An altar of words. Blood offered nightly.
Carved in starlight, offered to the unseen.

“I wrote her a sonnet—she used it to line the birdcage. No respect, I tell ya!”

“I once wrote a panegyric to a lady fair… she mistook it for a menu and ordered someone richer.”

“A panegyric? You mean sucking up with rhythm. It’s poetry with a hard-on and no self-respect.”

“He praises me like I’m Olympus. Darling, I am. But flattery is pollen—
I don’t need more of it. I need results.”

“He speaketh praise with breath so sweet and long,
Yet knoweth not her silence proves him wrong.”
“You build me cathedrals of praise,
But darling… you never ask me what I want.
I don’t need statues.
I need you to bleed with me when it rains.”

___________________________

How?
Do I get back to…
Innocence?

Hmmm—
Maybe just
Wisdom?

The truth…

I chase
The light—
Knowing
The dark—
Will sting me.

The Sacred Seeker
The Doomed Pilgrim
The Worshiper
Of all things beautiful.

Forever transformed
By the journey—
Toward what,
And who,
You love.

I do
My best
To Bleed
That Truthful Beauty
That Essential Essence
Through my Quill
Into
The Fibers of this Page.
___________________________

Invocation to the muse

To be a poet (addicted to verse) is to be forever changed by the journey,
to chase what cannot be caught,
to love what cannot be held,
and to turn every sting into honeyed verse.

O Muse, what marvels hast thou spun in me?
Thy breath doth weave my heart’s own tapestry.
Behold the wonders thou hast wrought, divine,
In quill and ink, my soul’s sweet verse doth shine.