If Only There Were a Hell

Greed reigns, justice waits patiently.

If Only There Were a Hell

If only there were a hell,
a great red maw where the smug could be swallowed whole,
where the well-fed wolves in tailored suits
could taste the marrow they sucked dry from the poor.
Where the soft-palmed tyrants who never lifted a hand
except to sign someone else’s ruin
could finally feel the weight of what they’ve done.

They dine on loopholes,
wash down greed with vintage wine,
smiling with teeth bleached and unbloodied
while the bodies beneath them twitch
with forgotten dreams and unpaid debts.
They build empires on sweat they never sweated,
and laugh behind frosted glass
as the world burns in the distance
like someone else's house.

They buy their way out of truth
and call it justice.
They weaponize charm like a scalpel,
cutting out the hearts of those who dare
to speak, to resist, to remember.
They dress their lies in clean language
and clip on a flag pin
as if consequence fears the powerful,
as if virtue can be faked
with the right lighting and PR.

This world,
this carnival of polished cruelty,
rewards the puppeteer,
never the puppet.
The crowd claps loudest for the magician
who disappears the suffering
right in front of their faces
and sells the illusion as hope.

We let monsters write the rules
and then cheer when they win by them.
We build statues of the rich,
engrave quotes they never said,
and teach our children to admire
those who devoured their grandparents
with a smile.

And still,
the world spins,
and they get richer,
and we pretend not to notice
the graves beneath their feet.

If only there were a hell,
some furnace vast enough
to balance the scales,
to burn away the sanctimony,
to make them feel what they've made others live.

But maybe—
maybe the joke is on them.
Maybe the justice is older than courts and contracts.
Maybe it's slow,
silent,
but certain.
Because rot lives in the mansion’s walls
just as well as in the shanty’s.
Because no one escapes the mirror forever.
Because the soul,
even when gilded,
still rusts in silence.

And maybe the punchline
is that all this power,
all this pomp,
was never real.
A trick of the light.
A game of shadows.
They ruled a circus
while thinking it a kingdom.

So laugh,
laugh loud,
not from spite,
but from knowing—
in the end,
truth doesn’t need fire or pitchforks.
It only needs time.
And time
devours all kings.
Especially the false ones.