Innocence Not Proven. Poem by Ripper Jones

Sleep eludes them,
Until the blue-grey dawn.
That lifts melancholia's plea
To life's ironic scorn.

A cuckoo is heared amongst the chirrups,
That set another day along
The pathway of life that usurps
And takes innocence's song.

The vivified soul, if it does exist,
Gives momentum and meaning to every twist,
And hammers black time, with a manifold reason
That dims the wit of the surreal season.

The jangled nerves of sinewed defence,
Presents its case to a deft pretence
Of justice seen with assinine law,
That protects the guilty to a commoner's awe.

And the judges that play God with unvarnished life.
See nothing diabolic in their abusing knife,
Laying the ground for certain death,
Prematurely cut from stony breath.