The Path of Bullets

I don’t really see why,
Why good people die,
With a knife slashing through,
Eviscerating the remnants of hope
Or a bullet that quickly flew,
Leaving those left to mope.

If living by the sword,
Means dying by the sword,
Why then do the innocent perish
In ways that distort judgment
And sow the seeds of malice
While the evil lives unbent?

Has justice opened her eyes,
Her ears closed to the righteous’ cries,
Her scales tipped to the highest bidder,
Her sword but a blunt decor,
Her white cloak ripped asunder,
Existing but a malign whore?

True, tyrants have been slain,
By the fruit of their unjust gain,
Yet another comes after the last,
Claiming glorious revolution,
Only to repeat the vicious cycle of the past,
The cycle that seems to have no solution.

I don’t understand why,
Why good people die.
In what path should one tread,
To that elusive destination,
In the path of the bullets of the holy dead
Or with the pilgrims of corruption?

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