A cigarette filter dangles between the boney knuckles of my middle and index finger
Smoke rolls up my hand
My head falls to the back of the chair
I can smell the pollen drifting from the oak trees
They remember when dying for what you believed in was an easy decision

A cigarette filter hangs between my lips
Smoke rolls up my cheeks
Stinging my cornea
They have yet to see what it means to hold the hand of a brother you have never met
To watch his life become a folded flag

A cigarette filter lies in an ash tray
The smoke rolling into the atmosphere
The cherry red slowly fading
The filter has heard the worries of a soldier yet to serve his country

A pack of cigarettes lay on a bedside counter
Waiting to hear what more I have to say