“Two Trophies”

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(1-26)

 

Two trophies on the wall

Each glistening with chance

A dueling feud of opposites

A conflict core, enhanced

The first, a caregiver’s cause

To make our people healthy

Their bodies toned and tanned

Herded happily, by the wealthy

The second, a sharper image

One honed to a combat edge

Selling warfare implements

To those standing on a ledge

Both seekers go in separate ways

They run at coasts, afar

Life and death are commodities

Sold at the world bazaar

To keep them is to kill their kin

An act done skillfully

Fed on made up prejudice

And twists of history

Guilt and shame have been erased

They no longer rule the land

Instead, we have a manuscript

Held in feeble hands

A trillion dollars spent, and more

The cost is of no concern

Battling infirmities

That tempt the worm to turn

And just the same, a poker pitch

Of rockets from the tomb

Missiles and marvels of all sorts

To defend Mars and the Moon

I might have missed the cry for help

I might have missed the clues

But I saw footprints in the mud

Shaped by cable news

The message was important

An entreaty to understand

An interpretation, bold and hot

From an artificial man

That reworked photosynthesis

Created a growing groove

One not literal or likely

Yet undeniably improved

It brought a sense of healing

That seemed strange when pulling the plug

But once the cord was cut

Everything went under the rug

Healthy and wise is the goal

While graveyards fill with grace

Both birth and banishment looming

Twin towers of sordid waste

A grin of goblins, painted

Upon the hallway stairs

Those who hide in such corridors

Are blissfully unaware

Doctors dabble to save the lives

Of believers on the march

But an unfortunate series of events

May still those beating hearts

When that tale has been composed

It will be rightly said

That this drive to dig through dirt and stones

Was an ache for a sleepy head

Guns and scalpels we will supply

We keep both tools in stock

But ultimately, judgment comes

From the ticking of a clock

When the winder is unspun

The spring, no longer taut

Then the sunset will embrace

This careless chase of naught