Like the smell of gas
lingering on the air.

With burnt diary pages,
the words un-legible
full of stories never to be told
and lost personas;
scattered on the dying grass.

So rough to touch.

The metallic tang on the back
of your throat
tastes like blood
from the night before

and the night before that

and before that

in fact

whole years of yesterdays.

"You'll want some honey for that."
He said.

His calloused hand outstretched

Cold and clammy

Unnatural.

Like white noise
on a warm summer's day.

Where the trees blow
in the sweetheart breeze.

But the birds in the canopy
don't sing a note, not a single melody.

And everything is bitter.

With the toxins of war.

In this charade:

Called truce.

A/N: I played around with this a bit and I would love your opinion on this piece. xx