My second synthetic ode. Parts I and II represent antithetical aspects of a child’s development, first the creative wonder and exploration all children seem to enjoy, then the addictive violence and desensitization of modern video games. Part III presents the synthesis of these two, the soldier on the field of battle, ready to kill without hesitation or remorse.
Imagine, as you read, one voice—say a soft-spoken female voice—reading part I and a second voice—say a harsher male voice—reading part II. Then, as you read part III, imagine the two voices reading in unison.
Transmogrification
I
Hazel eyes absorb a world of wonder,
cities floating through the sky
half concealed among the clouds,
mermaids dancing in the sea
half revealed among the foam,
and camouflaged away from human sight
elven nations thriving all around the world.
Nimble hands explore
paper wood and plastic,
creating new inventions week by day.
Supersonic aircraft zoom through hallway canyons
and out across imaginary bays;
coffee table cities rise among the couches
busy with the sounds of industry; and
stellar ships and space ports emerge from bedroom closets—
precursors of a future yet to be.
II
Stormy eyes absorb a realm of slaughter,
cities rotting with the dead
overrun by demon hordes,
Gothic townships ever dim
overwhelmed by zombie mobs,
and everywhere, apocalyptic doom
drowns imagination with visions of the slain.
Frantic hands control
pixels bent on trauma,
with implements of every kind of war
wielded to the hymns of personal damnation,
gentleness made mad for battle-scores,
shooting hacking slaying, all discrimination
lost amid a growing thirst for more. And
steadily the will to think and learn is narrowed
to morbid rivulets of combat lore.
III
Steel gray eyes survey
silent flesh and burning bone,
columns pluming black against the darkness,
cities rubbled with dismay,
broken homes where broken mothers moan,
brick and mortar scattered through a halflight
fraught with holy terrors lurking deep in shadow
and sensor-tripped explosives stashed along the roadways.
Steady hands take aim,
crossing foes between the rigid hairs
of righteousness and training,
a firm belief that killing in the hallowed name is fair
ingrained through years of subtle inculcation.
Calloused fingers stroke the edge of death,
forever tense, prepared to deal
the fatal strike that leaves the twitching dead
left glaring up one final supplication.
