Dotting the landscape,
There are beehives
Wherever I look.
Not hanging from trees,
Roofs, pillars, columns,
Or any other nook.
Not the usual bees
Buzzing around.
These hives grow upwards
From the ground.
Made of steel,
glass and concrete.
They don't store
sweet honey.
In rows upon rows,
Columns by columns,
The pursuit is money.
In 4x4 cubilcles,
Drones are at work.
Clickitty, clackitty,
Killng creativity.
Mindless, monotonous,
Mechanical, menial tasks,
That no-one dares to shirk.
Swarms of clones
Toiling away
Into obscurity.
Seen, but still invisible.
Heard, but not their voices
Only robotic drones.