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Here you will find the writings of the poet Theodore Waterfield

Death of the Beehive

I killed the hive out of self-defense.
The busy world of a galactic dream.
I spread the poison
over the entrance to their city,
a thoroughfare of workers and warriors.
They had invaded the sphere of protection
for my family,
children unaware of trespassing
on their precincts.

I could not negotiate the terms of surrender.
Prevail on their alien intelligence.
Protect them from my arsenal of weapons.
So it was done.
I did what I had to do,
sorrowfully and with regret.
In the morning I surveyed the metropolis
of their exquisite geometry.
The discipline that had been
the culture of an admirable life.

I saw stillness.
Not a sign of flight or construction.
Everything that was beautiful
and vibrant was destroyed.
I had preserved my own kind,
safeguarded their health
and understood that compassion
is not salvation.
Somewhere,
will a superior force or entity
look at us and say,
enough is enough,
and do what it has to do,
leaving our cities silent and destroyed,
the ellipse of a moon?

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