AT THE REFECTORY TABLE

I enter the chamber, a shifting storm,  
my footsteps echoing against marble and memory.  
I do not knock. I arrive.  
The air in the room thickens  

I take my place at the ancient refectory table~
my hands folded, as if I hold the hinge of history.  
I watch them~  
the wary eyes, the clenched jaws,  
the careful arrangement of words  
meant to sound like certainty.  

I lean forward.  
I speak softly, 
my whispers bending the room 
more than their shouts.  

When tempers ignite, I rise~
not in fury, but in full authority;
and the chamber falls silent,
as though the very walls recall
the ruin that discord once unleashed.

I press them,  
not with threats,  
but with the weight of consequences  
they already know too well.  

And when at last they yield,  
not to each other,  
but to the fragile truth between them,  
I exhale~  
a slow, deliberate release,  
for I have steered the storm  
toward a narrow passage of peace.  

I am Political Negotiations.  
I do not choose sides.  
I choose outcomes.

10th grade11th grade12thpersonification

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