Lumps of flesh like overused clay form mangled bodies, laying
still on the sharp green grass, permanently soaked red with the
blood of the innocent, cooling and congealing in the night air,
the stars twinling overhead, spittle of light showering from the
blackened sky, joining with the cold, harsh light of the moon,
white and revealing, the truth plain in front of your eyes.
The aftermath of war leaving only cooling flesh,
lumped together like overused clay, twisted and torn
formt eh fight they had. Opposing colors dance in the starlight,
reflecting off of glassy eyes and purpling skin.
And then the smell hits. Decaying matter's scent
sneaks up and pounces on your nostrils
like a jungle cat, mauling and scratching at your
nasal passages. The blood - You can smell the iron,
salty and sticky, barely and hour old.
-DJG.
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Sun Apr 17, 2011 3:13 pm by 
Subject: Untitled. 
