Old Soldier (Sans Domicile Fixe) Poem by Peter Strugnell

He sat on the steps, of the S.D.F shelter,
he said 'hello again' as i entered the gate,
I open the doors it's really bad weather,
'the roads are really icy, I'm sorry I'm late'.

'stay a while' he beckoned and he started talking,
'I want you to know just why I'm here,
the horrors I've seen, the ghosts are me stalkin',
and why to stay sober too long fills me with fear'.

He's been as far south as Spain he says,
but in fact he was born in this region,
the last ten years have all been a haze,
since his discharge from the foreign legion.

It's hard to see that proud soldier today,
with his stained trousers, tied up with string,
his jacket all worn and his health in decay,
and not giving a damn what tomorrow will bring.

leftunattended his madness just worsens,
there are scars you can't see, but can feel,
he's been wandering around fighting his demons,
there are injuries he carries that just won't heal.

the trauma of war and artillery percussion
have left him broken and beyond repair,
i get up to thank him for our discussion,
and prepare to leave him to his despair.

note:
S.D.F = Sans Domicile Fixe (with no fixed abode)