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Plague of Sun's Ire

Licorice beetles
crawling over a tumbling,
crumbling wasteland of rock,
burnt brown, under the
fierce eye of the butter
sun’s ire. The plethora
of pale sticks, plaguing
warm plateau, look like
bones, or old dry legs,
tossed meaninglessly onto
the brown chocolate land,
blistered and cracked.
The sticky sap has run
from the splits in the sticks;
the marrow run from the bones,
spilled and glazed against
the rock carpet.




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