I hold a fickle hand

With little else but judgement to pass.

Not the kind which is dutiful

In nature, fulfilling the purpose

Of justice - no, this kind

Is much cruder, idealized

To my own whimsy,

Reacting instantaneously

But no less solid.

My trespasses need

No forgiveness;

They lack a name

To attach their sentiments.

My conscience couldn’t

bear the vitriol of the words I used.

Freedom from accountability,

That is the fuel for

My frenzy.