The cloudy halo of back street lamps
smolders in his smile.
A three piece suit couldn’t hide it,

Unlikely
that dockers and deck shoes
will disguise the feral cant
of brooding eyes.

His battlefields are well hidden
on the inside, so many old wounds
to anesthetize.

The scars are those
of any prisoner of war;
his words so gentle
they leave you bleeding.

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