There is a black place inside me. It can be reached and perhaps it can consume. But it is not a hive. The black place inside me is mine. I found that it could be filled of architecture and light, water and ancestor, o, things that make me bow-to.
“Patience! coy singers of the Delphic wood,
The brightest sun tempts forth the viper brood;
And, of all insects buds and blooms enclose,
The one that stinks the most infests the rose.”