Details |
Liam Moran Poem
Whispers are heard throughout
Echoing off the old, decrepit walls.
Lawyers nervously tapping the tiled floor, already in their minds perceiving how the can twist and and carefully
ever so carefully weave their words to form a web of lies, smirks on their picture-perfect faces.
Each fighting a different battle.
For the lawyers, there is no such thing as justice.
For them it is a minor inconvenience,
If anything, a simple test of skill,
but to the man on trial
it may mean he spend he rest of eternity still.
In the eyes of the prosecutor, the man is a wild animal. A trophy kill to add to the collection.
On the other end, the attorney declares his innocence, with the sincerity of a child telling his mother he didn't soil the bed.
The judge overshadows the courtroom, wearing plain, nearly ancient, black robes, as if he were arriving directly from a funeral.
Yet, his face tells a different story. It is not the judges torn, tattered robe that allow him the greatest distinction, but his worn, weathered face. It displays experience. His creased eyebrows and wrinkled features give no emotion as his stone cold eyes pierce the room and simply observes his surroundings.
He arrives at the seat of his power, a king in his court. He furiously pounds his gabble with the force of an ox. The never ending squabble of the jury begins to cease, and the whispers are hushed.
The trial has just begun.
Copyright © Liam Moran | Year Posted 2016
|