Peace

The air was cold and a thick mist haunted
the dying grass. Murder was in the land
and as the world cleared, the horizon was
spiked with blood. The bones shimmered like silver.
Heads floated into light, smiling at the
rising sun. Crows chained curiously to
the corpses, heads tipped, rip, giggling at their
finds. A patchwork of death littered the floor.
Trinkets of life sunk into the moist soil;
captured for future generations to
explore. The foul smell sunk deep into sweet
flowers, they become bitter for the near
future and winds pull their power over
to those who dread fate. Somewhere behind the
coils, the stabbing wire, excess shell fire and
sleeping souls, shelter those who lay silent;
forever doomed. The air was warm and a
shimmer of light hunted the dying youth.