Island nation,
Once a haven between cold-shouldered continents
Was it the eruption
The molten fingers diffusing across your topography
suffocating every frond in their path
Liquid heat
consuming even the fire ants
Or the tremor,
8.3 on the Richter scale
Severing the last connection of your faulty earth
A trembling even the ancient roots
could not withstand
With jagged edges
Two broken masses float apart
Lost at sea
avoiding the continents at either side
The pool of faces crammed at coastlines
hoping to catch a glance
Of this phenomenon.
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