Juror Number Nine
A poem from the perspective of Twelve Angry Men's Juror Number Nine, about why he willingly believed the witnesses' lies. I don't own Twelve Angry Men.
Seventy years
Struggle, hardship, tears
But nothing to show
Nowhere to go
Never made gold
My story untold
Lost and alone
Vacant home
I stand here, bereft
Is there anything left
How can I know
Where can I go
Past my prime
Stuck in line
Seasons change
Nothing gained
If there was a chance
For importance to start
How could I not
Disbelieve my own heart
Changing the facts
Playing the act
Make myself believe
I don't have to leave
Wouldn't you bend
If soon was your end?