He sits on the edge of the world
unconcerned with the
dissimulation of
polite society
busy little bee's
bouncing off reality
living the dream he
so valiantly fought to protect
he sits there quietly
saturated in *****
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 **** 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 covers flesh uncovered
where gnats and flies feast
and maggots dine beneath the skin and
his breath
his breath  smells of Dragon Blood
do we even know what Dragon Blood is?
apparently he does
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 degredation
and waltz in the face of death
until God calls him to reckoning
he will sit there on the edge of the world
listening to
the mundane idiocrasy of those who wander by
left to his own maundering
invisible that is
until the olympics come to town