It started when his parents were sent to prison after the trial.
Restless hours in bed followed by turbulent days of denial.
Straight As at school became "Fuck you!"s at his aunt.
Life was a trial, a blur of "I won't" and "I can't".
Psychologists were called, and psychiatrists, too.
No one could help him, no one could get through.
Then came that specialist with that fateful question,
“Want to join a clinical trial, a new drug for depression?”
He was admitted at once and began the medicine.
Round the clock monitoring, it was an arduous regimen.
But he never got better; in fact, he got worse.
My brother was soon brought to rest in a hearse.
And now I am back at the courthouse once more.
A new trial to test me, can I walk through that door?