Justice (poem)

[Underground_Network]

Somewhere between the edge of a cliff
And a cove in a snowy top mountain
There is a form of justice that speaks
Like wind and sees like an owl,
All-knowing, all-being, a gold needle lost
In a disparate haystack.

Now this justice can speak and see
But it cannot hear, so when the unspoken
Lies of a child reach it's so-called ears
It does not retreat, but spurs forward
Toward the forbidden mistrust
Known as humanity.

Justice takes form as a dying willow
in the midst of a swampland long abandoned
By the desolate spineless creatures
Deemed homosapiens by their own disillusioned
Form of culture, a culture so uncultured
It is pure impurity in the greatest sense
Of what never could have been
And always was.

The willow peers over a the edge of the swamp
And dips a tyranny of branches into the water
And droops, sweats drops of languished fevered lust,
Formerly water from the swamp, pollinated with malevolence
By the forces of lost humanity found only in the areas
Abandoned by the destructive importunities of natural humanity.


Some would call this "environmentalist intervention"
But others, such as the willow, such as justice
Would deem this putrefaction caused by an inner dissatisfaction
With who humanity was
And who humanity will remain
Until the willow dissipates
And justice flusters in its own disapproval
Leaving nothing but drops of languished fevered lust
In a sanguine pool of prejudice.