02/07/2025
Deceptive Justice
Behind these iron bars lie the bitter fruits
of labor sown in inequity—
the haunting consequences of an act never mine to commit,
yet one I now carry as a curse, branded into my name.
An act not just a change of a moment—
but one that rewrote the very course of my life.
A verdict that corrodes the bones,
that gnaws at the soul until identity is hollowed out,
and all that remains is that writing of horror:
"Guilty."
As I stood in the presence of the honorable judge,
my hands trembled—not from weakness,
but from the weight of a judgment I could not control.
My heart of tears with fear and sorrow,
like a rope tightening around my chest.
Fear gripped my soul like chains—cold, heavy, and unrelenting.
For I knew, with painful clarity,
This moment will determine my fate.
Will I still be able to return
to the world outside,
where sunlight warms the skin
and freedom fills the lungs?
Or will I be condemned to years of silence
for a crime I did not commit?
T’was the Lenten season of 2018.
A season of repentance, reflection, and mercy
became the season of betrayal.
My colleagues, whose laughters and burdens
I once shared,
turned to blades behind me.
I had not wronged them,
I was simply living.
By the goddess of envy, they wove a lie,
like the widow catching a fly.
And the widow has the toxin spread,
masked like nutrition, unending dread.
Here lies the room,
where oaths are sworn before heavens.
Truths and lies collided like storms.
Every word thrown like a dagger, like a dart.
The crowd’s glance like the devil’s art.
My crying heart sought the judge,
in its desire of comfort, utters a budge:
"May justice prevail."
The sly consciousness reminds
the soul of Socrates the philosopher:
"Wherein now my refuge and comfort lies?
In money and power twist truth and strangle justice,
who will then protect the innocent
from the venom of false witness?"
The prosecution and their polished tongues
rehearsed righteousness, the hammer of justice,
presented their case like theater—
strategic, sharp, and dripping with malice.
I stood with nothing but my truth.
A quiet one, left unheard.
Then her moment came.
A voice steady and cold,
uttered the very word I feared most—
trembled the soul, shattered the being:
“Guilty.”
The cosmos processed for my being.
Knees realized its mortality.
And the earth left and fling.
The gasps reached reality.
In that verbal singularity,
the virtues I upheld, flushed down,
leaving not even one pity,
crumbled like dust, the crumpling gown.
Thereupon lies another truth,
the cold bars house no villain.
The orange costumes no brute.
Not every conviction speaks the truth.
Some of us are victims—
of crime and broken systems,
of corrupted power,
and of people who lie with clean hands.
And so I sit in this colorless, cold cell,
with grief of my mortality lingering.
My heart rises and falls,
come not with shame, but of bitterness.
I live with the ache of injustice,
the weight of a lie that stole my life.
The silence of a world that kept moving,
while I remained misjudged and forgotten.
Words by Scofield Alegarbes
Illustration by Kenjay Lungayan