A whisper grows to a scream
not from the shadows of my throat,
but from the pit of my consciousness.
A question, unsettling and terrifying:
“Why do evil things haunt the good?”

Natural to demand merit.
Ignorant to expect justice.
Though I wonder:
Is the good revealed by what we weigh?

Beneath hopeful deeds
lie shattering motives.
Kindness with stipulations.
Love with terms and conditions.
Forgiveness, misused and misrepresented.

I ache for recognition.
I desire karma carved in stone.
Though the heavens
drown me out.
Truth’s quiet hand lowers me,
revealing an epiphany.

One Man
Truly good
handed over.
Not to fate,
only to purpose.
Filthy thorns.
Deadly nails.
Ghastly wounds.
Willingly worn.

The screams now
shrink in silence.
The question shifts.
“Why does mercy rain on the wicked?”

Good intentions,
undone and dismissed.
Hard work,
laughed into silence.
Empathy,
hardened into apathy.
I am buried under the
prison of my own disillusion.

The realization stings,
though not for long.
I am among the fallen.
Filled with malevolence.

Unworthy. Undeserving.
Simply not good.
Still, saved by grace.
Though the weight of my shame
Has chained me to the floor of deceit.

What if I can’t accept this gift?
That is the question that
terrifies me the most.