Is It Mead You're Looking For?

Up through the rafters
Of the attic of my mind
A large, glass jar sits

As tall as I am
With molten, golden ferment
A blooming bee bile

Weathered-wood walkways
With the infected below
Moan mournful music

Though I am afraid
The sick cannot yet come up
Damp debris deters them

My attention's held
By great, gaseous, gooey waves
Lifting loosened lid