Fag Ends Poem by ANDREW BLAKEMORE

As the old man sat within his chair
He lit a cigarette,
His face was etched with terror
And his brow was damp with sweat,
As the smoke rose from the ashes
And it drifted through the room,
'Twas like that raging battlefield
Appearing through the gloom.

He stared upon the fag ends
Slumped within that silver tray,
He saw those dying soldiers
As in agony they lay,
He could see their helpless faces
And yet nothing could he do,
Each one was like a brother
And no better men he knew.

Once proud to serve his country
Yet the medals that he wore,
Seemed scant reward for what he'd done
And horrors that he saw,
Through every waking moment
Every second he did sleep,
That scene flashed through his troubled mind
The pain and scars so deep.