tHE gUILTY jUDGE

A man of seventy-one stood tall,

A simple life, a steady call.

A hand to hold, a path he made,

A quiet home, a love well-laid.

Fifty-one years he wore that ring,

Through wars and winters, everything.

A father, granddad, soul of stone, A man who built, not bled, his own.

But down the street, a vulture crept, Fresh from the cell he should have kept. A thing in skin, a twisted boy, Who raped and laughed and still got joy.

An activist cloaked in powdered law, Unshackled beasts with pen and flaw. No iron bars, no righteous weight, Just ink to sign away a good man’s fate.

A blade flashed fast, the old man fell, Eyes wide, heart torn, a ringing bell. No final kiss, no time to plead, Just crimson loss and hands that bleed.

His wife now stares at empty chairs, A ghost of vows, a grave of prayers. The sons he raised, the daughters too, All broken in a world untrue.

The grandkids cry, they do not know, How weak men and women let this evil grow. A wife alone with shattered breath,

The price of mercy bought by death. For Linford Another slain by the Robes mercy.