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Unlikely fingers drum a borrowed

Select storm, as limber limbs prickle;

The mouth, a cold purse upon it,

Pickles briefly, then an expanse of molars

Erupts, lending any lens a full quartz

Of sparkle to this faceted canny quarry’s face.

Powdered particles of suspended

Spatial awareness reveal dark faults;

Scarried highs belch, opening veins

Perilous for following feet out of step —

Rich pickings to mine — a keen eye.

All of this whilst a corrupt world erupts;

Abyssal pain blasted across generations, nations

Ashen, already too weathered to bear much more.


Such stones are these.