Etched in her weary face, from sea to shining sea,
lines of worry stretch across, California to DC,
begins to lift in surrender, two very weary arms,
as left and right bicker, only cause each other harm.
One raises the question, what good can come of war?
the other stars and stripes, like forefathers before;
neither dare place a cap on the price to set men free,
both tremble with the fear, disasters come in threes.
For children, her bloodshot eyes past shores strain,
in the eleventh hour, starts to sink in amber grains;
thinking of those who traveled with their Uncle Sam,
older ones lost in two world tours, Korea and Nam;
empty arms still grieve, for young that died so brave,
knows the third one will surely put her in her grave.
I'm caughtt in the middle of the country's heartland,
between flag raiser and protester's legitamite demands;
we need both arms up to see Iraq remain a free place,
the irony of democracy in the hands of the human race
Gold trophy winner
Honorable mention
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