The id, the ego and the superego,
with a panoramic view of time.
The under the surface rippling,
a premonition before the crime.
The ticking bomb of a destined fate,
that is, the underprivileged child.
Desires that spell out only hate,
His lawyer absent, his defense, denial.
The shackled hands,
are smoothed with youth
How can he tell lies,
when so ignorant of the truth?
And beneath his hood,
are darkening brows,
That stir the courtroom,
disapproval aroused.
The boy begins to speak,
in battle with an uncouth tongue.
The bluntly uttered syllables,
ricocheted and clung.
'Sir, it wasn't us-
the system let me down'
But the hammer kills the sentence,
despair etched in his frown.
