The relentless humming of the wings of the striped and furry
Through a desert where flowers exist only in a vision, blurry
Through desire and desperation sees a cactus and rests
But no food bore and no honey to produce. Fear of failure manifests.
The Bee becomes bewildered; fatigue settled she starts to sing.
Her Swansong audible by herself alone she searches for the next best thing.
A baron wasteland, a palette of orange and eternal blue, there is nothing of such.
Her song outplays and in the final breadth of breath she has only the Cactus to touch.
The Polar Bear, who has now taken to the seas with its necessary skills
Scours the freezing landscape for it’s inevitable next kill.
The Walrus’ tusks and the penguins’ speed provide tiring combat and no success
So he retires to the valleys cold and the mountains high for a length recess.
For he won’t extend far from his bed no more, whilst he tidies his chamber,
Where no one in years will no of his existence and no one will remember.
As the broken sky collapses and his surroundings are thawed to liquid matter,
He makes one last hunt for the next best thing but returns empty and no fatter.
In my depiction of the world and the way things degrade,
Death is preordained and life’s colours may begin to fade,
But for now I need not worry because there is one point I can sing
That in searching for happiness the next best thing to you is nothing.