The Whistle Blower

Redemption lay in the gavel and the bench,
In the journalist’s pen, the black and white men,
But the lies they spun, stole the sun
It robbed my own of the one she loved
And when the years were gone
I wished for death, and prayed its stench
I wished for redemption.

Redemption often comes at the back of the barrel of a gun,
So when redemption draws, it is needless to run.
There is no safety, no savior from what is to come.
It waits, its gait, as sure as dawn.

Redemption often hangs at the end of a rope,
No hope for those who chose to live violently,
No peace, in the place that they go
Live by the sword, and die by the word of
Those who decide the meaning of life
And whether or not guilt truly resides
With cash or kind.

Redemption often lies at the tip of the knife,
A thorn in the side, guilt in the mind
Wisping lies, till you, till I, till we, finally die.
I asked the need, I asked the why
To feel the safety of a long-told lie
The need for redemption.

Redemption often shocks in the seat of the chair,
Smoking hairs, casting cares below
Till it smells. Smells like…. hell
The daily burning, crept so close
The end I felt, the end was near.

Redemption came on Friday night
The sting of a blow, jailer’s strike;
For hunger’s sake, I stretched my plate
For more, for nought, he struck my eye
Until I saw the light, so bright it looked
Like redemption.

I hope my tale, my plot was told
I hope they tell my kids the truth.
Their father could not be sold for gold
Even though I wish I had some more
In the country where I’m from,
Only the rich deserve redemption.

Amaefule Kamsiyochukwu

Amaefule Kamsiyochukwu is an avid reader writer and law student... He enjoys music, elaboration, and making money. The Whistle Blower reflects on the heavy burden of truth, justice, and the elusive nature of redemption.