The Spider Part III (The Bumblebee)

So there is this boy who is deathly allergic to bee stings, but aside from that he is a normal young child. His dad has a very important job which requires him to be gone all of the light hours almost every day the boy can remember. One day, though, his dad tells him that some day the two of them will go the beach.
Every day from that point on, the boy wakes up long before the sun and wakes his sleeping dad up to ask him (mispronouncing complicated syllables in an innocent youth) "Are we going to the beach today, daddy?" And the dad has to sorrowfully tell the boy "Not today." This continues for a couple months or until nausea is induced for anybody who has been a child of the present cynicism of the air, but his faith remains in his dad. One day, after going through all of the same motions the boy has before, he waits for his dad's answer by the side of his bed, this time though the dad smiles and says "This is the day."
The boy can hardly breathe he is so excited and the two of them begin the long trip to the shore for a day at the beach with daddy.
They are now driving in the car, and the boy is still smiling, a smile that has not worn off or been tarnished since his dad put it on his face earlier that morning with a simple "Yes." The window is open and the smell of an early summer morning is pouring into the backseat where the boy sits, at this speed down this road it is a completely new experience for him.

Abruptly, though, the way any story can not continue in harmony, peace is cut out. A large bumblebee gracefully gliding along what it considered a dull grey grasspath has now found itself inside the backseat of a long awaited experience for a small child and his father.

The boy begins to grow increasingly upset, as he is old enough to be fully aware of the consequence of a single act of hostility from the steady flight of this bumblebee. "I forgot my pen dad, if it stings me I'll die." He begins screaming; in an instant his world has been reordered and the peace and happiness he felt in the presence of his dad has been replaced with fear and torment in the presence of this tiny but deadly invader. "It's going to end." he is now yelling almost incoherently.

The bee was beginning to reorient himself for an escape (this was not the first time his world had changed so drastically) when the smaller of the two occupants began to flail violently. Some unknown instinct spoke reciprocity to the animal and he began himself to grow increasingly annoyed to the point of whatever small amount of violence his low state would allow. He flew one more circle toward the roused form occupying at any point more than three-quarters of the bee's space.

The boy, now increasingly worried of the threat of death, was now frenzied, although nothing coherent was coming out in between thrashing screams, certain words like "death", "pen", "sting", "dad", "die", and others could be heard from the boy. Without notice for the dad, the boy fell silent, he now gazed on the bee as it made one more circle toward him and flew a straight line to the boys now suspended expression.

He closed his eyes.

Although he hadn't been stung before, the boy was sure it hurt and in the place of the anticpated initial pain was instead a sharp jerk in the movement of the vehicle. He slowly opened his eyes to see his dad's clenched fist, barely in front of his face. It took his immature thoughts a moment to connect and tell him the story of what happened. He began to smile and rejoice. "thank you dad! Thank you so much, I was going to die!" he began yelling, with more happiness than he had ever experienced. The dad said nothing, but instead opened his hand, and the bee began to fly about again.
The boy's face changed with even more abruptness than it had before. His screams began again to erupt and he was now more frantic than he had been before slamming his hands up and down against the velvet upholstery.
The dad then spoke with a tone the boy had never heard, it was full of so much control and so much calmness that the boy had barely forgotten what he had been so upset about.

"Relax my son," The dad said and opened up his hand to reveal a spot of blood in the middle.

"I took the sting."

(rejoice for the mouth of the grave has been sealed with blood)

Planetism.

Green daylight
disappeared behind luminescence.
Provocative to a level of feigning syndrome.
Coma. Garden. Acidtrip.
Whitelight bath for the newborn passion,
birthed in violence.
The death of her mother,
clinging to a bloodclot for dear life.
I am nothing to...
Awakening from her sleep, the child now
grown and lucid to the realities of the world
left the beauty of phosphorescent existence.
She walked for days pursuing a life void of such
revolution
because it's turning like the open buds of flowers
to absorb the footstep song.
Coma. Garden. Acidtrip.
But she never woke up,
mortem in utero. Still born.
Or did I abort it?

Cold wind conditionary.

First-person is such tranquil reciprocity.
They never mentioned themselves
as though they were just in line.
She validates the cold accord by changing
what she felt when the storm was a fresh scent
in the air, unmarred by the pollution
of the factories she built to change the organic
nature of everything they had seen.
They embarked without her heart, pacing like the rest
but realizing she had left it, refusing to let it go,
she collapsed and bled from a hole in her chest.
He desperately tried to seal it but the pollution leaked
in and changed her and she began to cough,
a circle forming around them disappearing for days.
The scent of the air became toxic and the geometry of the landscape
cut them both in myriad ways.
"This is the ends for such a human existence?"
was the cry from the young lover's mouth.
The people around heard nothing and continued to romance
the violence and drink in the poison of the air.