A drone of yellow, striped with black,
A worker’s heart, a volatile back.
Beegarde, they call him, buzzing bright,
But shadows lurk beneath his light.
In Mossanda’s depths, where sunbeams stray,
He toils and gathers, day by day.
Honeycomb dreams within him spun,
A sweetness held, yet barely won.
His loyal brethren, Elizabee,
Hum a chorus, wild and free.
But Beegarde’s soul, a fractured gem,
Holds secrets locked, a diadem.
He yearns for peace, a hive to keep,
To mend the scars that run so deep.
But rage ignites, a fiery sting,
When shadows fall, and darkness sing.
The buzzsaw whines, a mournful plea,
A trapped machine, yearning to be free.
Oh, Beegarde, lost in chaos’ hold,
May gentle touch turn stories told.
For in your wings, a hope might gleam,
To break the curse, and chase the dream.
Of sunlit fields, and golden comb,
Where peace may find a lasting home.