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Army of Flies
They descend on decay,
On gory mounds of a just-fought battle.
They eat from the dead,
The bloody skulls and bloody grins,
The sinews of muscle left exposed.
All the rivulets of blood
Flowing all everywhere.
Still the sky is clear blue.
The sun is bright.
White clouds roll by at leisure.
Underneath such beauty is carnage,
Always carnage.
The bones are picked clean.
An army of corpses
Defeated by an army of flies.
© 2025 Quincy Dominic White
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