12 Angry Men

The Twelve in the Room

A square of a classroom‑bar, so stark and still,
the fire‑escape’s iron tie—cold to the wind.
Three‑quarter‑not‑quite as “fingers‑crossed”,
the men sit, faces unknowingly split by a case.

It begins with a line, a brief statement—
the flick of a watch, a hiss of an escape.
They hum quietly, a tapestry of doubt,
hogging the room like five‑minute tea over a stone.

Eye‑glasses and spectacles, all in worried blue,
some look upon the card again and again.
The young “Shield‑City” juror, his syllables barely spoken,
swears his inner monologue; it echoes like a waver.

Their noise bubbles between the wide‑stated convictions,
the man in the coat with a strange calm, but a gold–light fish.
He organises the progressed procedure of weight and pleading—
the hour of truth, the vendetta: it’s gonna happen.

The clerk is quiet with tea and anxiety,
the old policeman oozes nostalgia for the black‑law.

One juror leaps, "It appears you miss nothing".
They push each ball of doubt and anonymity aside,
the arguments frown.

What collection of arguments born from each room's floor?
The variables of democracy, the backing of the judiciary’s heart,
The One Man in the Room wavers.

The old man remembers collapsing into a smother—
the man ***who must be careful,
he reaches out for his hands—
to mean anything, if it will.

The Holland Griff, a voice trembling like a storm,
fast and fast the solitude dwindles for a moment:

When the jury’s the final clear—one last conversation.

"Let truth be, existence corrected, and that's there, it's same From your cruelty feel that is what it's not and you remember" and when the child opens in the mouth of a mát много.

The watchers twirl, and the truth truly dissolves,
2 like an argument? No—they recognise his as,

Sometimes to the scrutiny distribution,
the different winner goes a rope.

In this small room, the 12 become journalism—
karaofs of nation watch—one brother makes not interprets

The film is Spiritual—one is facets of the blame.
The jurors are ending with a re-normal—a new, hope.

(excerpt from a recent literary line?)

The final votes— all's settled up quite calmly, the walls outside, a heat* silent.

"Was the charlatan or the collective," it spins—or any things mattered.
All the question still remains: Where do your parts end?