The gavel of the judge slams against
the wooded alter of Fate.
A fate by which the judge commands,
to his own wish or whim.
 
Faces of the audience pale with fever
as Ability is tugged from under their knees,
and the willpower to go onward,
defeated in the third and last of the ominous raps of the 
swinging gavel, 
walks away to accompany another's determination.
 
Expressions of glee and triumph oppress those of dire defeat.
Exulting over their triumph, 
They swing their jackets over broad shoulder
clicking their boots and smacking their gum
with haughty flicks of the eye,
carrying off their prisoner into devastation 
of disorderly function.
 
Writhing down the cheeks of those
who lost two companions,
are the blood stained contortions of a tear,
Expressing the hateful and deranged spirit of 
Disappointed Depressions.
 
Springing with a life force of hate and contempt,
the skin upon the brow of foreshadowing 
seeps sweat upon the breast of the stricken.
Licking the salted and destructed air with fangs of 
Dagger and Dice,
the Contemptible relieve the space 
of a contamination in unitized disguise.
 
No second thought passes over the clouded membrane of 
the Decider.
None but the exhaustion of the work of the day, 
and the expression of wish of deeply relieved stress.
No second thought shall pass,
when the first has yet to come.
And yet no first arrives.  
For what to be expected shall not come
in the dealings with the Decided.
 
Crying and Writhing and Wrestling,
The child submits to the torture of the
tumultuous tremblings of spirit.
As the contorted tears upon the faces of 
those akin, the unsubmissive spirit
screams out to those of stature for the
hope of stepping in.
Screams out, again.
Screams out, again.
Screams out, again!
 
A man on the balcony in a blue and brass suit;
of Stature and Power, and Will,
Watching the scene with a devastating eye,
listening to the scream with a subdivided sigh, 
he turns his back to the persistent, pleading cry.
 
And so do I.