“Testimony”

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(9-26)

 

If I testified about being unconvinced

By the prettiest poetry of a foreign prince

And instead asked if one might seek a different path

Would that cause you to laugh?

If I confessed that a ritual left me cold

When many were chosen to enter the fold

While I sat alone, and wondered aloud

Separate and apart from that reverent crowd

It is my chosen condition

A familiar sort of disposition

And I testify

 

If I spoke in a tone of disbelief

When you championed the cause of a beggar and thief

And took instead an opposite view

To find a better thing to do

Might that dissension put me out

Like a pawn at the gates, lingering in doubt

If so, I accept what must be done

I have never been a favorite son

It is my chosen condition

A familiar sort of disposition

And I testify

 

If names are cast like sticks and stones

And I crouch in a corner with aching bones

Will it make me seem less of a man

An outlier and target who chose to stand

On a hill at the edge of a natural preserve

Where leaders shepherd the obedient herd

And the few who run in a different direction

Are left to find their own protection

It is my chosen condition

A familiar sort of disposition

And I testify

 

If I spit in the wind and receive a rebuke

Would you counsel that my error brought a moment of truth?

I could not expect to hear a different take

If making such an egregious, erroneous mistake

Yet somewhere along the way, I forgot that creed

And it left me hobbled with a sense of need

To be better and brave in the face of a loss

To remember the wages of an unlucky coin toss

It is my chosen condition

A familiar sort of disposition

And I testify

 

The hands of a timepiece sweep around in a circle

To track the progression of life lived to the full

But in this sad instance, I could not remain

On that spot where I stood, when out of the rain

So I find myself facing an embarrassing trick

A ruse that is run, devastatingly quick

With a sheen of red blossoming, upon my face

And the knowledge that a checkered flag signifies my disgrace

It is my chosen condition

A familiar sort of disposition

And I testify

 

The years have grown many, as I counted them all

A roster revived by a soul, held in thrall

I remember the time when this curse did not bend

The will of my heart into a tangle of loose ends

The trail laid before me shows things coming to pass

But all that I see is a reflection in the glass

That view may be madly murky to behold

As I am straining to see through the keyhole

But It is my chosen condition

A familiar sort of disposition

And I testify