CRIME Poem: The Scales of Dust, by Joely Williams

The judge in robes, a gavel poised to break,
A measured breath before the verdict falls.
The jury’s eyes, like iron gates opaque,
Behind them hum the distant prison walls.

The lawyer paces, weaving webs of doubt,
His silver tongue a blade behind a smile.
Yet truth and fiction wrestle, flail about—
And both may lose, if dressed in right denial.

The witness shakes—a hand upon the book,
Yet perjury’s a coin that all may spend.
The guilty sit with innocence’s look,
The innocent are guilty in the end.

What is the law but paper turned to dust?
A game of gold, a theater of trust

Author: poetryfest

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