Jaxsun Castro Horn
The guilty asses of the criminal masses await their destinies to be read.
Streams of cries from remorse laden eyes, dried by sullied hands that fed.
Prison lullabies go unsung nor any crimson tongue, shall soften a jailor's cell.
An accrued balance due for the cruel malice ensued, engraving each victim that fell.
Do chains and bars, surcease pain and scars from the agonizing throes of death?
Justice will surely arrive while sinners prey to survive, the poise of Libra's breath.