Homes for heroes.

The old man in a cafe bar, hands clasped around his tea.
Invisible, he could be a ghost, who’s only seen by me?
It kinda gets me thinking about what he’s seen and done?
And why is he sipping lukewarm tea, at a table all alone?

Some say he’s still got family now scattered far from home.
I’m sure he must be missing a daughter, wife or son.
Ribbons on his blazer, exhibited with pride.
Served alongside brave young men who went to war and died.

They told him he was lucky to survive the battle’s rush.
He returned with memories, tormented in the hush.
He fought for “ Homes for heroes” and bravely did his best.
He brought the theater home with him, the guns won’t let him rest.

There was no time for brooding when the war was done.
He had to make the best of it, and find a job back home.
They promised him a “ Hero’s home”, a fortress safe and sound.
They put him in a concrete box, ten floors above the ground.

A sprawling modern high rise, reaching for the sky.
Ascension to internment, loneliness on high.
The planners could not understand how life in his old street.
Could not be replicated at fifteen hundred feet.

When he was a young man, when life gave him choices.
He did n’t need to listen to dissenting voices.
Now he is invisible, left alone to die.
In his concrete coffin, high up in the sky.

He fought for King and country gladly went to war.
Now he sits and wonders, what he was fighting for?
Because brave men never shout and courage seldom roars.
Tortured souls who dwell with us, ravaged by their wars.

Battle scarred forever, in unfamiliar places.
A marching throng diminishing, a sea of weathered faces.
Surviving on their memories, resigned to growing older.
In a world of progress, society grows colder.

These hero’s are among us, we often fail to see.
The old man in the cafe, hands cupped around his tea.
Ordinary soldiers, voices softly spoken
Climbing to hereafter, although the lifts are broken.