Not all Wounds Bleed

In Victorian times we locked them in, today we lock them out

Sitting in the street a plastic coffee cup at his feet

He looks OK to the passer-by, to the untrained eye

An idle bugger, junkie and terminally workshy

But this picture is very far from complete

He has behavioural issues this problem man

Loses his temper, raves incoherently at folk

He abuses alcohol, his mind wears a cloak

Of darkness, a member of a despised clan

Of nightmares he’s never free, his best mate stood on an IED

And now he suffers from the awful dreams

Of torn off limbs, and hideous screams

He’s a wounded soldier but it’s hard to see

Lest We Forget