He sits
On the edge of the world
Unconcerned with the
dissimulation of
polite society
Busy little bees
bouncing off reality
living the dream he
so valiantly fought to protect
He sits there quietly
saturated in urine
manufactured of
White Port fueled
by memory of war
Contemplating
nothing
Invisible to most
but still
a blight upon their sensibilities and
a horrid fright to the eyes when seen
Cold hungry and shivering
they could give a shit as to his welfare
They cogitate his insanity
his own undoings
And that smell-
the smell of death
lurking waiting to pounce
on yet another of society's outcast
Putrid sores cover flesh uncovered
where gnats and flies feast
and maggots dine beneath the skin and
his breath
smells of
Dragon's Blood
Do we even know what Dragon's Blood is?
Apparently he does
With two tours in Vietnam an a Purple Heart for bravery
Yet he sits on the edge of the world
bravely trampled underfoot of apathy
absent of coalition
He wishes only to be left alone
to dance in the pain
of degradation
and waltz in the face of death
Until God calls him to reckon
He will sit there
on the edge of the world
listening to
the mundane idiosyncrasies of those who wander by
left to his own maundering
invisible that is
Until the Olympics
Come to town
YOU ARE READING
Fallen Stars
PoetryA collection of poetry, prose, brevity, musings, writings and chaotic scribbling from dachaoticmind.
