Nervous chatter filled the room;
The big room where the great court met
To dispense justice and to free the oppressed.
And the one with the gavel,
Adjusting the skin that covered his face,
Motioned for silence, silence!
A man entered, cold and hard,
His was a crimson path to walk,
Padded, with trim.
His seat wide, soft, ornate.
Those with ballot in hand looked on with compassion,
Knowing the charges against him were impossible, ludicrous.
Their eyes were diverted when the doors again swung open,
When entered the flower.
Bright yellow was her face,
Her petals pearly white,
All but one,
Stained and wilted.
Boos and hisses echoed in the room,
Who was this flower anyway?
How dare she make such a fuss?
So she was stepped on?
She was in the man’s way!
No permanent harm was done,
Her golden middle was still gold.
Who cares if one of her petals
Is stained and torn?
Murmurs of assent circle the room.
A smirk crossed the face of the man,
As if to say, yes, who does care?
“I DO!”, came a thundering voice from above.
It silenced the crowd,
The man’s face was frozen ash.
“Justice is mine, and…it…will…roll!
The day will come when this flower
Again will be whole.
I care that her petal is not the white I made it!
I care that she has been stepped on!
I care that what was meant for my glory and my delight,
Was instead taken and thrown away, misused and disrespected!
I care that innocence has been stolen!
I care for this flower and my decision will be known!
Play your part, take your stand.
Bang your gavel and read your verdict.
Play at justice, with your man-made laws."
But I am the Judge and from me there is no escape.