In a world where justice is a masquerade,
Persecution by prosecution wears a deadly shade.A politician's game, where power's the poisoned prize,Leaves truth and innocence, lost in a labyrinth of lies.
The persecutors and prosecutors, drunk on their own might,View themselves as gods, in a twisted, fatal light.But time, the great reaper, waits in the shadows, unseen,Ready to harvest their souls, like a scythe cutting through a field of green.
In the quagmire of their making, they'll sink like stones,Their legacy, a tombstone, etched with the names of the unknown.For when death comes knocking, with its cold, unforgiving hand,No power, no wealth, no influence, will stand.