Cases pile high on my desk. I sigh.
Another lost soul
sixteen and desperate.

These Judges fear blood as we step in it everyday-
the cement is never purely clean.
Suits discussing white collar crime while

boys play with knives.
Their knuckles bruised, stitched tight
from the last gang

initiation. Yet,
under the stoned skin of what we see as danger
are the innocents

teary eyes begging
for an outstretched hand in their solitary lives,
seeking a map and a man

to illuminate their attributes.
Their cries quickly silenced by the click
of another pair of handcuffs.

Learning? Secondary as prosecution prevails.
The system stifles another minor, stifles
a second chance,
the last embers of hope.

These are the lost boys: faceless behind the black ink,
abandoned by society.
            They need a voice.

Blood frigid in my veins with each file I finish.
I want to be your guide,
I want to be the locked safety on that loaded gun.

This is a cry
to raise your morals
            and lower your gavels.