Your skin feels like burnt paper.
Last words like ashes,
Eyes like sand.
Zero, this is Three-Two Bravo…
Dead leaves in water,
Floating in a wadi.
Smoke, thicker than air,
The gasping breaths of a dead LAV.
…standby for nine-liner. Over.
Lingers, floats, curls and spirals up like a spirit
Over the ghosts of ourselves we left behind in a grape field,
Twisted and wrecked like scarecrows in a wasteland.