arctic
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The Sky tightly grips his transparent shield as it disintegrates.
Mother Earth is exposed to
heated rays
that penetrate and sear her soiled skin.
The thing about the earth is that
It isn’t round
Because god made it like that.
It’s so the sound of my voice doesn’t
Touch yours.
A flicker floats upon a crystal sea.
The chilly clear white-caps
Damask a dance of cold intricity-
Beneath the wind that flaps,
