Honeycomb Serpent

The people are gone. They don't exist. 

I can't do it...
The sounds intensify
Are there people around me talking, birds singing in the distance?
No, there are only bees... buzzing
Buzzing so loudly the sound is abstract
Infesting my ears, festering in the wax
burrowing into the ear drums stinging the canal nerves raw
The numb comfort isn't painful, rather it's a stale euphoria
I can't hear, but it's better that way...   
I can't...

"The trees past the window blur, the sky is a color which I cannot perceive and the snakes slithering down the mountain turn back upward"

I can.... hear the void... It's so loud it swells up in my brain
Bursting with overloaded senses, as cold and unmoving as thick compacts of ice
I can't.... But....
But the bees,
crawl out and hover before my eyes
I can't see, but I don't need to
I can't see the other people in the room, mundanely going about their worthless tasks,
Can't hear the merciless clicking and clacking of keyboards driving me towards insanity, can't see the half full coffee cups, books, and stacks of paper
The trees past the window blur, the sky is a color which I cannot perceive and the snakes slithering down the mountain turn back upward...
They slither instead toward the bees about my eyes
Slithering faster, yet in motions delayed by false time
They press against the window chanting with their venomous tongues
You can't..
But..... I
But..... I have.....
They spit their venom like fire-tipped arrows dipped in arsenic, a thousand tongues licking away the winter's frost
I still can't....
...see the people around me
Do they exist?
Do I exist?
Do the snakes and the bees and the tress exist?
The window breaks and the snakes rush in
Their thick scales scratch my esophagus somehow...
Ah, as I have opened my mouth to scream,
they've thrust themselves down my throat

 "They spit their venom like fire-tipped arrows dipped in arsenic, 
a thousand tongues licking away the winter's frost"

The snakes eat the bees, the bees sting the snakes
Thick, smooth bodies wrap around my neck
The bees drone about, hypnotized by the honey-like earwax 
Thick, sticky, sickeningly sweet honey peppered with bees rolls out my ears as if someone is tipping me over slowly
While the snakes wriggle and squirm, lodged in my wind pipe,
the grip around my neck tightens
I... can't....
Dark, beady eyes stare at mine through the bee clouds
Their breath explodes out in a burst of smoke
The people are gone
They don't exist
Perhaps they never did, and overcome by a molecular make-up crushing weight...
...the bee's clouded about me, the snakes crushing my throat from inside and out, and the honey pouring out of my ears.....
I don't exist either

By Randiah Camille Green

-Part of an ongoing series about having an existential crisis and resulting existentialism.