When he walks
he throws his legs out
with an abused energy
that is a liability
to his empty stomach.
The laughter of his voice
ascends on the dry
rough path of its sound.
He talks of his exploits
his many conquests
Yet down his neck
Run the dry tracks of his sweat,
his abandoned missions.

His smile is rehearsed
before an adamant mirror
that refuses to smile
His mind is a false city
in which
even the infants
refuse to play.