On The Other Hand...

I look at one hand,
There grasped I an ivory tusk,
glittering and shimmering under the surreal star light,
It's beauty suceeding its task,
It's splendour an addictive blight .

Have I Been,
Blind to its redundance?
Fixated by its shine,
De-synced from its cadence?
Enstranged from its rhyme.

Do I seek,
Use over grandeur?
or Function over vanity.
Ability of just mere?
or profound utility.

On the Other Hand,
There wielded I an Iron Mace.
Cold and hard to the touch,
It's presence yawning and bass
and not pretty all that much.

Did I sought,
For a weapon to brandish?
Armaments to parry
against the harsh banish
of my own dignity?

Or were both mace and tusk,
an illusion conjured by my confidence,
a prestige that fools even its creator,
an esteem that becomes the cremator,
learnt by the corpse's imminence,
that both mace and tusk, are nothing but an empty husk.