Millard Lowe Poet Prose Poetry

In the Famine of Justice

IN THE FAMINE OF JUSTICE

Besieged with wrenching pangs of hunger,
bloating a belly of despair, I painfully called out
to my mother—justice—cold just-
ice.  
With a Mona Lisa smile and covered eyes,
she revealed her prune-like sagging breast,
the closed the door of the pantry of mercy,
and walked away, leaving my lingering 
hungry—

There is not a day I do not trace the trail
she left behind—not a morsel can I find.
The tongue of the freedom bell
no longer speaks.  My ears grow weary;
worthless words echo mere memories.

But be beholding my children.
Be not dismayed; for hope unborn
is not dead; nor is its audacious spirit.
Justice may have walked gently into the night,
searching—Tomorrow,
the perfect storm of resurrection shall fill her sails,
balance her scales, and rip the blindfold from her eyes;
and she shall awake from the ravaging nightmare
of injustice and rain down liberating righteousness.

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