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So, what does the color of justice look like to you?


The Color of Justice

By Kaitlyn Karol



 

Justice is a red velvet

cake

when it melts

onto the tiny buds

of the tongue,

with creamy white

frosting

swirling down the lung,

for after-affect slips

into a heaven

so divine

passionate holding to its fancy

so smooth, so fine…

 

But most think justice

is a red velvet

carpet

waiting for the soles of their shoes

to be carried across

its privilege,

not caring about the

carriage

that brought them there

once the souls of the spirit

have lost their purpose  

and tired feet snap like the minds

of the criminally insane

in meaningless missions

 

Justice is a green, dead

President

to most,

crumpled in pockets and wallets,

but burnt through like toast,

crumpled marriages and mansions,

doomed childhoods

from rich, decaying neighborhoods 

from carrying the weight of

so much cheapened paper,

misguided, dirty high-end numbers 

with devastatingly low priority,


mishandling and mishandled presidents -

need a shredder

to make this feel better!

 

Justice is a rich, imprisoned man lying face up

with a wingless, skanky whore,


lying face-down in a clean, beautiful cell

where his nose breathes in the odors of

a stained and dirty floor,

spending excess time to keep

from being a suitless bore,


but his tie is still on,

tied to all the shame and lies,

as he sets up his next

round of

callous and careless alibis,

the shades drawn, the sun without sight,

the light of truth may blind

those windows that are shut so tight,

the pain of being honestly unkind,

shudder to think

how the next trick will sink…

 

Corporation

does not equal

cooperation….

nor should a totalitarian

exist in the total

and complete  

wholeness of

the Aquarian age;

sneezing and coughing,

the stubborn cold from

inhaling stale air

in an animal's cage...

 

The tight rope

that strangles the neck,

the arm and its sleeves,

the burn marks it leaves,

the dust and the splinters  

stapling shut the throat,

oh, how it hooves and heaves

 

Still sitting and

sitting still

and dangerously harmless,

but hours turn into days,


and the smoke stings from the haze,

the smack of inertia, so deadly,

its kill lingers in waves…

radio silence is roaring while

fat TV-lazy boys are snoring

and no one knows what time it is,

maybe it’s the stroke of genius

that clocks strike the top

of each hour,

or maybe it’s the foul smell of

finality

when you realize you wasted

more of your mind

than any amount of time,

and how dull

and just how just

is that

stained

color

now?

 

 

 

 

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