Discreet feet do meet conceit;
Discretion of the session on repeat.
Stare decisis — my soul to pieces,
Doctrine: the Motrin of law’s diseases.
Justice dies in well-written motions,
Conceded to “efficiency” notions;
Rights dissolved in procedural grace,
Expired to a clock-watcher’s hand — forever lost in the case.
Due process trimmed for docket flow,
Justice prunes truth — comfortable fit — what courts show;
The record clean, harm “discreet,”
An acceptable loss at judicial feet.
Pain reduced to numbered lines,
Metabolized grief conceded in formal signs;
Hope takes the shape of longing — somewhere past the form,
Metered human fact survives the norm.
The law calls this balance, measured and fair —
But balance means nothing if no one is there.
I will not die, voiceless, neat;
Justice my call, my soul’s will mete.