-1Justice was a beautiful woman. She plied him with kisses and whispered words and gentle fingers run through curly, tangled red hair. They fit together perfectly, their lips, their hands, their backs, their fronts, their minds, their hearts.
"Anything for a pretty lady," the boy who hates his particle says.
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Justice was a beautiful poem. His whole body trembled as he read it, hardly able to believe that it had been a human mind that conjured such a beautiful picture. And it hadn't, quite, for Lady Justice had stood behind and guided the pen.
"Yes, yes!" the poet cries, longing for the freedom as his tears mix with the ink.
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Justice was a beautiful building. He saw them build it slowly, brick by brick, nothing hastened and everything following its perfect course and falling into exact, beautiful place without anything to push it along. No one hurt, no one killed.
"Exactly," the philosopher says.
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Justice was a beautiful color. The crimson of blood shed of a cause, the flush of cheeks readied for a fight, the shade of a face turned china white with passion. The blue of bruises gained by forcing the future into existence, tearing up the grey paving stones of the past and flying the redwhiteblue of the future. The oldest of them wants it.
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Justice was a beautiful death. You cannot lose, you cannot succumb to whatever it is that is eating away at inside of you, your lungs, your head, for there is a greater glory in store. To die away from the smell of medicines and the cramped, stark, stuffy white of the sickroom, the unclean feeling of the sterilized sickbed.
"That is my wish," says the malade imaginaire.
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Justice was a beautiful helper. A hand to grasp when he was falling, a franc to borrow when he had lost all of his. A thing to fill his head with when school nearly drives him mad, a burning ideal to fill his stomach with when there's not much else there.
"Here's what a fellow needs," the bald eagle says.
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Justice was a beautiful promise. A hope for tomorrow, a swear of betterment, of eventual equality, of someday everyone getting what they deserved and needed and nothing more. A promise to work for, to bring about himself, for if he did not then who would? The orphan does not mind he cannot hold it, for his hands are empty anyway.
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Justice was a beautiful young man. A taunting picture of perfection, a golden god placed on earth, a light drawing students to him instead of moths. That which even he cannot, will not mock.
"It's not for me," the cynic says.
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Justice was beautiful.