Poetic Justice
Poetic Justice
His rage arrived before he did—
a slammed door, a bottle’s clatter,
anger breathing louder than love
ever dared to.
Alcohol was his armor,
his excuse,
his slow, faithful accomplice.
He ruled the house with weather—
storms without warning,
silences thick as smoke.
We learned to read the tilt of his glass,
the slur of his footsteps,
the way cruelty passed for strength
when fear went unnamed.
Poetic justice is patient.
It doesn’t raise its voice.
It lets habits finish their sentences.
Cancer did not argue with him.
It did not flinch.
It moved in quietly,
cell by cell,
teaching his body the lesson
his soul refused to learn:
nothing survives constant poison.
The rage had nowhere to go then.
No one to corner.
No child to diminish.
Just a body turning inward,
consuming itself
the way he always had.
In the end,
there was no grand reckoning—
only the math of consequences.
The bottle emptied.
The shouting stopped.
The house exhaled for the first time.
Poetic justice isn’t revenge.
It’s the truth completing its arc.
A life shaped by destruction
meeting its mirror—
and finally,
falling silent.
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