black sands

I am an island.
my trees grow knotted and gnarled, their branches jut
irregularly breeze cracks hollow limbs in half
gusts overturn—revealing insidiously rotten roots
beaches sputter up black sand, swallowing slumping tree lines
crows circle overhead—for they’ve nowhere to land
I am an island.
my current chokes, mutating clear waters into pestilent sludge
waves are snuffed, flowers wilt, my inhabitants drink and dement
they feast on infants slathered in after birth and claim not remorse
slaughter each other and slit their own throats
my black sands are not enough
I am an island.
my volcano churns vicious magma in it’s belly
thick smoke and molten lava spew
blistering my trees, setting my dead ablaze
turning my beaches igneous, squelched only by my sludge
immortalizing my seared rapture
I am an island—
and I am dead.

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