By the shore, beneath the moon’s embrace,
A bottle drifted—a timeless trace.
The waves, relentless, sang their song,
Of broken paths and where I belong.
Perhaps the hour has now begun,
To bare my truth beneath the sun.
A letter scrawled with trembling hand,
To plead, to mourn, to understand.
“Forgive me,” I wrote, “my final plea,
For sins unspoken, lost at sea.
For tarnished love, once pure and bright,
Now swallowed whole by endless night.
Forgive my restless, reckless ways,
The wounds I left, the debt that stays.
Forgive the words, sharp as the tide,
Born of despair I could not hide.
Forgive my doubt, my fleeting trust,
The dreams reduced to windswept dust.
Forgive the paths I walked in gloom,
The bridges burned, the seeds of doom.
Forgive the years that passed in haze,
The shadowed nights, the empty days.
And yet, forgive me not, if you cannot,
For I am lost—a soul forgot.”
I sealed the note with trembling breath,
And cast it to the waves of death.
The ocean claimed it, pulled it deep,
To cradle truths I could not keep.
Yet in the stillness, hope remained,
A fragile thread, though faint, sustained.
That somewhere, far beyond this shore,
Life waits, renewed, forevermore.
THE BULLET FLEW TWICE OVER
“I love reading the news, but it must be true—something rare in a world where truth is elusive. What does truth mean? Does it have boundaries? Can it exist always, yet shift in different realities? For lawyers, truth is a weapon and a shield, wielded in the arena of reason and evidence. But truth, in its rawest form, is neither kind nor forgiving. The weight of violence lingers long after the shot is fired, staining the soul with echoes of what cannot be undone.”
The bullet flew twice, breaking the skies,
Its path unseen by blinded eyes.
A rival fell where silence reigned,
While shadows deepened, truth remained.
“You sought the stars, the fated lore,
Yet darkness claimed you evermore.
Through fields of rage, through endless pain,
You chased the heavens but found disdain.”
The bullet’s song, a mournful sound,
Its echoes haunt the hollowed ground.
A whisper crawls through bloodied air,
Who bears the blame? Who dares declare?
A single voice, a trembling cry,
“Yes, I – yes, I, and none but I.”
The bridges burn, the rivers dry,
Yet no redemption meets the eye.
What is the cost of justice’ name?