Break

Cigarettes, lapped up by dying wood.
The stale scent wafting through the damp breeze,
like a fine perfume or an aged brandy
matured to a woody feast for those starved of aroma.
The wood so old the nostrils can almost sniff the splinters piercing though soft peels of flesh.
And still the years of absorbed ash add a fine finish for the kind that seek surroundings of scunge.