Lacking a buzz

All thoughts here have been wafted. We are millions, crawling through the relentless caverns- cascading, all whistling to ourselves; a reverbrating tune in a barely hushed tone. Sounds like chaos, but we’re just doing our jobs. If you were to ask us what was being said, we wouldn’t tell you; that information is witheld because we don’t know. It’s a tune passed down every generation. The notes are written in our very existance; on our golden striped hinds… So we sing the same song; one passed on like a chain reaction; from a mother to her sons, we are one mind- A hive.
A few thousand insects, we are labouring for the same cause… We feed our eternal mother so she can create us so we can feed her more (and henceforth); in this way, we prolong. Below mudded turf, an evergoing cycle, we multiply. Colonizing the skies, the buds, the underground, and our mother see’s us as undergrown…
A collosal bug: stump winged; darker and longer than us; she lacks our attractive guise… Our eternal mother, our soul and our creator but in truth, this mud stained producer is more a prisoner to our cycle than we are. She lays up to two thousand per annum; two thousand who trap her. She abides here in her chamber till death, or until her use has lived out, so maybe her heartlessness is justified. You see, we received no tender touch from our mother when we were young; no caring warmth. You were one in a million and she never let you forget it.

So, there you have it; we speak the same tongue, march the same routes, fly the same course, have the same mother and even bed the same buds: A body of striped soldier lacking a buzz.