A hippy sits in the corner.
But he’s never smoked ***.

A bandage drapes his chest.
But he’s never been shot.

The bandage is unseen.
And so was the bullet.

The sound was so silent.
He didn’t even know it.

His diagnosis: Betrayal.
His prescription: Ink.

His past: Too near.
His future: Unclear.

His eyes keep staring.
He never blinks.

            -December 28th 2013