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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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