A Cigarette Butt (on the night of Sant Joan)

He lays fallen upon the ground,
victim to a battle
more die for with every day;
his worth spent,
the fiber of his head
clouded by moody pensations;
a collar of white,
crown of dusty gold
crushed flat
by the heel that cast him aside;
and lacking now the breath
that summoned his end
to tell of his humble plight –
he must ever remain unsung:
a cigarette butt.