The Trophy

Although it may be a little tarnished
It’s gold as warm as the sun
Golden rays glinted off that fare structure
The hardship for it, incomparable, handball was its’ culture

The battle was fought, it was swift, deadly, yet breath taking
Slogs and curses thrown in a jumble of words
The ball was hit here and there, desperation filled the air
The hardship for that one trophy was incomparable

The final moments were dim, memory loss a probable cause
Aoun the man, a large monster he was
Muscle ripped his shirt, his arm was a fierce adversary
The ball came to him, his arms swinging in a twirling motion

The dance did not last long, he hit the ball
The ball was low and fast-a deadly combination
Bryan had no chance, he was out in a flash, Aoun’s supporters screaming with pleasure
It was up to me, the crowd hushed-the anticipation bursting from their eyeballs

The serve came slow, Aoun aimed it well into the corner
That dirty cheat deserved to be punished but of course, what could the timid judges do
Aoun was a good head taller than the rest
So, it was up to me, the last man standing

The outcome of that battle for another poem in future I will tell
But that shiny plastic trophy, a token of skill, on my table does dwell.