Thirteen

something just hasn't gone right.

  I wait with exhaustion which pulls me down,
  wearing a borrowed suit, my fathers
  as a robe. My rite of passage,
  the call me in.

    Around the table sit twelve men,
    faces shine with gloom.
    These diabolical democrats of,
  "quick decisions" and "constructive critque"

    Fast from sleepless shief
    my ideas are held up high for all to see
    A spark of light in this,
    kaledoscopic room.
   
    Twelve ATM's,
    Plasticed, fabricated decisions of,
    "What is the aim?" and "target market?"

    I hold no answers,
    just five years lost inside myself
    But,
    At sunrise they will seek me out,
    I will hang for this,
    for king and board.

    Who put the miss in fortune?
      Who puts an idea onto the screen?
    I have missed out.