Frank Fowlers Impressionist syle

The top two pictures actual sketches with colored pencil. The bottom two are picasa effects of the self-portrait sketches I did.

Justice?

Justice?

This is an oldie - from February 2001. Almost four whole years old. I haven't had time to write much poetry recently. This was written as a song; it sounds much better with the music, but alas . . .

There's a prisoner who sits in a faraway cell
Ignored by the warden and inmates, as well.
He knows he's not guilty of the alleged crime;
He sits there, just biding his time, biding his time.

The judge and the jury stand out in the hall,
Calmly ignoring the prisoner's sad call.
His plaintive cry echoes, but they just don't hear.
Can it be justice they fear? Justice they fear.

The prisoner, he sighs, for he knows how they work.
They all hate their task, and their duty they shirk.
They must soon determine the poor prisoner's fate.
They quibble; the hour grows late, the hour grows late.

The prisoner despairs of returning to home.
His mind is with people; his body's alone.
He waits to hear just what the verdict will be
Knowing he's already free, already free.

The jurors hate justice; the judge is corrupt.
The prisoner's not guilty, but that's not enough.
The verdict's for prison, though based just on lies.
He smiles and closes his eyes, not really surprised.