Melita
yes, yes, I am wild
I am the wind that makes breathing hard
I am the wind that makes breathing hard
At times, Melita was complicated; forthright in her mannerisms, with a thousand burning conflagrations under all the spite, poor impulse control, and haunting memories. She was destructive and defensive to a fault, capable of unfurling copious amounts of damage to anything that threatened her, her friends, or her companions’ livelihoods, without much hesitation. An ember, a piece of kindling, eager to be incited and stoked within a moment’s notice.
And then there were other moments where the Honeybee was very, very simple. As she patted the ground, then stood up to survey her work (a modest amount of dead brush and leaf litter removed, at least a chance for the sapling to grow a bit taller), she shrugged her shoulders. “I like peppermint bark.” Brushing her hands together, she snagged at her bag, hastening towards her companions in the vague inclination of their silent bond.
And then there were other moments where the Honeybee was very, very simple. As she patted the ground, then stood up to survey her work (a modest amount of dead brush and leaf litter removed, at least a chance for the sapling to grow a bit taller), she shrugged her shoulders. “I like peppermint bark.” Brushing her hands together, she snagged at her bag, hastening towards her companions in the vague inclination of their silent bond.
I am the ocean and the battered shore
I will be the passion of thunder, a howl of fury
I will be the passion of thunder, a howl of fury
