A/N: This is a somewhat tribute to veternans of war. I don't know how to describe it.
In a borrowed coat,
he loses himself in the pockets.
Little flecks of swallowed black
one hand against the wall.
In someone else's coat,
he inhales a smell of must and pebbles
lightly the untraceable scent of mint.
Peppermint reminds him of shadows and a lane lined with violets.
He doesn't know why.
Words that run like insect wings
with drops of clouded dew.
In someone else's stance,
he thinks about substitution
and what people will do to get peace.
He wants to be the someone else that the coat belongs to.
Where blood runs into camomile tea,
war meets peace in a clash of liquids.
The dusty air
inhaled through his lungs.
A trace of vanilla.
He, in his borrowed coat,
thinks about his fallen comrades
finds himself in a stream of unconsciousness.
mint, blood, flowers
he dreams of the defeated battlefield.