Third From Canopus

Barren surface of blood red sand.
Planet known for being the empires most prized land.
Fuelled by spice dug from the ground.
Too many noises result in a distinctive sound.
Rumble, tremor, approaching worm.
One false move will end your turn.
Playing politics is simple by compare.
Mostly they manoeuvre and deliver a hard stare.
With eyes turned blue by exposure and time.
No one is ever willing to draw a bloody line.
Rather the cycle repeats without end in sight.
Maybe a Shai-hulud could with a bite.
A million teeth in a single form.
Sight capable of making you wish you hadn’t been born.