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Personal Note:

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Poem


How do I prove my state of mind,
When time has passed and closed behind—
The doors of cells and courtroom days,
Still echoing in quiet ways.

I cry at scenes the world forgets,
Where mercy meets with no regrets—
Where men in chains find stars at night,
And wrong is tempered into right.

The Green Mile's steps, the final chair,
Still haunt me when the room is bare.
I feel the salt of someone’s tears
Across the weight of wasted years.

The warden's voice, the prison bell,
The hope that bloomed inside a cell—
These things remind me I still feel,
Still ache for what the world calls real.

Are judges truly just and wise,
Or actors cloaked in thin disguise—
Who guard their seats with callous pride
And push the weeping truth aside?

Do they, in private, miss the mark?
Would mercy dim their practiced spark?
Or does compassion have no place
Within the law’s unbending face?

The robe is black, the gavel cold,
But hearts are not so finely sold.
Could they, in silence, see my soul—
Not broken, but a man made whole?

I’ve paid with years and silent screams,
But still I walk with inner dreams.
I’ve watched the sky through iron bars,
And whispered poems to the stars.

If they could see the tears I shed
When hope is born though all seems dead—
Would they believe that I have changed,
That even pain can be exchanged?

For something finer, soft, and true—
A life rebuilt, a deeper view.
Not all who fall are meant to stay
Upon the floor, or swept away.

Redemption is a quiet light,
It does not shout or burn too bright.
But those who’ve known the dark too well
Can hear it ring like chapel bells.

And I am one who hears it still—
Though judgment waits upon the hill.

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