Slumped in the chair, a bag of bones,
He sits with prosecution, a misfit with a tie.
His forlorn eyes scan the blur of the crowd.
They stare back at his vicious lie.
The proceedings have not begun, and yet
The jury may already have made up their minds.
His posture lacks guilt, yes, but also courage
That he may never have the time to find.
Was exposing the devil that was the truth
The sin that they have made it seem?
Would his testament captivate their interests,
And light them fiery red in its righteous gleam?
Valor is such that one may choose to avoid,
But alighted, it will surely set you free.
While they continue to ignore the stench in the air,
He meekly dreams of the man he hopes to be.