I hold a song but have no voice, A prison born from someone’s choice. Though built with care and often bright, I turn free flight to captive sight.

Golden treasure in a liquid form, Born where buzzing swarms perform. I cling to spoons and sweeten your tea, A hive-born treat from flower to me.

A place am I where many roam, or some may even call me home. This way is done to herbs and more, preparing both to bake and store. When dropped, things are upon me found, for I am known thus as the:

You might have lived without me had I not given you so much, I hurt you when we touch, you make, and take life with me; I have no shadow, yet I do.

I can break and bend. I can fall, rise, and wend. I can be fast or slow, I can be wide or narrow. I may be many things as I run, from where I begun. I hope to carve the earth, and never wither. Of course, I am a?