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Warm Apocalypse.

Warm the inside of this frosted,
hardened rock embedded in my chest
till it is but magma
dripping, dropping,

plopping to my feet
in a puddle 

or spat,
erupting
all over my guests,

surely driving,
more likely burning,
all of them away…

but that’s okay.

Suppose this all was born
to die, anyway.

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