A head full of sand turning glass
with every douse of doubt.
I will soon be shiny and see through.
Soon I will start fires with my eyes.
All ants will die.
My species peaces out.
Poor orb. Your feeding hand is bitten.
Anything near the mouth gets bitten.
A mass does not think of impact.
Nothing will grow.
The ground is worn hard trampled.
The cowpath will survive us.
The core is said to be
part liquid part solid.