The young boy sits,
In a field of plenty,
Bugs flit in the summer sun
His whole life beckons
A world of possibility.
The teenage lad walks,
The streets familiar
His new girl by his side
Can life get better?
The future all anticipation.
The young man sits
on a barren plain
rounds like angry bees
his life on a thread
red staining foreign sand
The wiser man forgotten
by those who pass him by
spare no change to ease his pain
he has no roof no walls no food
but medals shine in sodium glare
The old man sits
In the cold grey streets
bloated and green
a rat climbs from his mouth
A hero from the war
fromthepigpen 
Glorious photo. Chilling words. I take it the photo inspired the poem?
Nice to see your gloomy cynical self around 🙂
Umm, glad to be back,
I got your messages but just couldn’t …
Actually, I watched Paschendale, gave me the idea for the morbid post, then driving North from Brighton saw the field. The one and I spent a brilliant morning walking by the poppies, stunning. The two things seem to fit.
I now have lots of catching up to do on everyone’s posts.
Touching…
Thanks Kumar, applies to every soldier in every country anywhere I think.
True…do check my poem “Border” and “Wake-up” almost on the lines of your thoughts…and let me know what you think of them 🙂
Very moving, and so true of the many forgotten soldiers, not just from yesteryear either.
I love the photo, poppies are my favourite wild flower.
Meant to add, it’s nice to see you back 🙂
Been a while but hopefully getting back in to the swing soon.
Thanks Vicky, that field is stunning.