Stung

Mid-week day off:
heat like Summer
in the budding Spring-time.

Sydney suburbia
wavers in a sepia haze.
The bush fires
create apocalyptic skies
of neon orange on
80's electric pink.

Cars pass gently
as if it were any other day.
The birds do not sing
songs of warning,
perhaps my human ears
are held obtuse -
unable to detect
the faint dips in their language.

The crickets and cicadas
cry out their swan songs,
as I sunbake dangerously -
I am all lizard
absorbing the Halloween sun,
secretly hoping it would bleach
the dark forests inside of me.

A plane softly glides over
it makes me think back to blue skies and
holidays to Queensland.
The dog walks past panting,
we both stare
at the smokey sky.

I suck in a lungful of air -
it reminds me of South-American bbqs
as a child.

Bees hum their honey-drone
and it reminds me of the sting
of heart-struggles.
I want to forget,
forget
it.
I push off the ground and walk back inside
away from the thick atmosphere.

I don't understand
This futile search
for understanding
the thing I struggle most with
the sad-happiness
of it all.