As the old man sat within his chair <br />He lit a cigarette, <br />His face was etched with terror <br />And his brow was damp with sweat, <br />As the smoke rose from the ashes <br />And it drifted through the room, <br />'Twas like that raging battlefield <br />Appearing through the gloom. <br /> <br />He stared upon the fag ends <br />Slumped within that silver tray, <br />He saw those dying soldiers <br />As in agony they lay, <br />He could see their helpless faces <br />And yet nothing could he do, <br />Each one was like a brother <br />And no better men he knew. <br /> <br />Once proud to serve his country <br />Yet the medals that he wore, <br />Seemed scant reward for what he'd done <br />And horrors that he saw, <br />Through every waking moment <br />Every second he did sleep, <br />That scene flashed through his troubled mind <br />The pain and scars so deep.<br /><br />ANDREW BLAKEMORE<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/fag-ends-3/
