Not Every Truth Needs An Audience

A bee hums softly in the sun,
Gold on its legs, its work well done.
It knows the taste of flowered light,
The patient craft, the earned delight.

A fly descends where waste is found,
Attracted by the fetid ground.
It feeds on what the gutters give,
And calls that hunger “how to live.”

The bee does not explain its way,
Nor argue how it chose its day.
No need to teach, no need to fight—
Each seeks the food that feels most right.

So guard your time, and guard your will:
Not every mind is meant to fill.
The bee returns to fields in bloom,
And leaves the fly its chosen room.

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