Halfhive mind, dripping in honeythoughts and bittersuites, buzzing with decadence.
Halfhive mind, torn asunder and structurally inadequate.
I’ve never learned the words rabbits whisper which way when wracked with grief, and Bueys already explained his pictures, so I cradle dead hare in silence.
I stumble forth empty mouthed, gold headed, and bearing a different little death; quicker heart stilled.
Rot overcomes all but metals in an alchemy no less sacred or profane, so I slather honeygold over rose tint and pray.