He sees the hundreds of eyes,
Watching him like a hawk,
As if he is nothing but a prize,
To soothe the hunger of the flock.
He knows they will judge him,
Flay him for any mistake,
For he is at the mercy of their whim,
and their juvenile justice. He takes
a deep breath and steadies the mike,
preparing for an onslaught of attention;
he refuses to give in to fright,
And the possibility of rejection.
A half hour later, he stops,
the lecture finished, the lesson done,
Now he awaits the verdict, and drops
his guard, vulnerable, nowhere to run.
His fate is in their hands,
As on his future they sit and decide,
Will he in their respect stand,
Or, in indifferent disdain, be cast aside?
Watching him like a hawk,
As if he is nothing but a prize,
To soothe the hunger of the flock.
He knows they will judge him,
Flay him for any mistake,
For he is at the mercy of their whim,
and their juvenile justice. He takes
a deep breath and steadies the mike,
preparing for an onslaught of attention;
he refuses to give in to fright,
And the possibility of rejection.
A half hour later, he stops,
the lecture finished, the lesson done,
Now he awaits the verdict, and drops
his guard, vulnerable, nowhere to run.
His fate is in their hands,
As on his future they sit and decide,
Will he in their respect stand,
Or, in indifferent disdain, be cast aside?
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