I stand before you; silent, hesitating,
Words trapped by fear and trepidation.
Waiting for something tangible,
To win this battle,
In a war waged but already lost,
In a trial by ordeal and by fire,
You are the judge, jury and executioner.
Accuse or recuse:
Smiling softly, you reach out for me,
You whisper gently, your words strike with
Cold, hard, unassailable logic,
Yet, your eyes somehow betray you,
There is no escape,
No final reprieve.
Antonin I. Pribetic, 2009