Etched In Blood, Carved In Stone

They say justice is blind.

But I have seen her.

Her eyes are wide open,

bloodshot, unblinking,

pupils cracked like burnt suns,

fixated not on truth,

but on coin and crown.

She is no saint of fairness,

no goddess of balance.

She is a charlatan in marble robes,

scales tilting toward whoever feeds her hungry appetites.

Oligarchs buy her silence.

Bureaucrats rent her gaze.

Faiths crown her corruption with worship.

Blindness cannot betray; only sight can.

It is not the dark that deceives,

but the eyes that watch and choose what to ignore.

We worshipped the lie that seeing meant fairness,

while her gaze, bought and rented, sold nations like cattle into chains.

She drinks from skulls cracked open with verdicts,

feeds on the marrow of the voiceless,

her banquet laid with broken oaths and

tongues torn from those who dared to speak.

Every gavel is a hammer on the anvil of her hunger,

every law a vein she drains dry,

until the people themselves are parchment;

their blood the ink of decrees

no one ever consented to sign.

And so we worship a hoax;

an idol carved in stone,

a promise etched into law,

an optical illusion painted as eternity.

We call her blindness a virtue

because the truth is unbearable:

Justice is an optical illusion,

a mirage painted on parchment,

a statue we convinced ourselves to be a god.

Her scales are rusted.

Her sword is dull.

Her vigilance eclipses statutes and skylines.

And when you plead for mercy,

it is not blindness you face, 

but convenience sharpened into indifference.

Justice is no natural force.

Justice is an apocalypse 

we fashioned, 

carved in stone, 

and

worshipped into being.