The Quiet Killer

 

The Quiet Killer 

In halls where justice ought to reign,
A shadow moves with silent tread—
It speaks not truth, nor merit’s name,
But lifts the unearned head instead.

Behind closed doors, decisions made
Not by the best, but by the known,
The cousin, friend, the favored face—
A throne not earned, but simply thrown.

The skilled are left to rust in doubt,
Their dreams dismissed, their voices drowned.
While empty chairs are filled with pride,
And competence is never found.

A land once rich in youthful flame
Now chokes on bitter, stagnant air.
For when the worthy are ignored,
The future dims in deep despair.

Innovation dies where it begins,
When doors are closed to all but few.
And trust decays within the hearts
Of those who knew what they could do.

Nepotism’s grip is soft but firm,
It smiles while pulling others down.
It builds a tower made of glass,
That shatters when the winds come round.

The farmer’s child, the orphaned bright,
The girl who studied through the night—
All cast aside for someone's kin,
Before the race could quite begin.

A nation’s spine begins to bend,
When posts are bought with family ties.
Corruption feeds where fairness bleeds,
And honor wears a weak disguise.

The courtroom echoes quiet lies,
The teacher's post goes to the kin,
Not to the one with heart and skill—
But to the one whose blood is "in."

It kills the dream before it grows,
It tells the youth: “Don't even try.”
For what's the use of burning hours
If merit's just a hollow lie?

In offices, you hear the sighs
Of minds that could have shaped the land.
They bow to those less fit, less wise—
While watching time slip through their hands.

It breeds resentment, seeds of hate,
Divides the strong from weak in name.
It breaks the rules, rewrites the game,
Then claims the prize without the shame.

And soon the brightest flee abroad,
To lands where worth is truly weighed.
They take their gifts where they are seen—
While home is left to slow decay.

A child sees this and turns away,
“What’s the point of school?” they ask.
For every honest path is blocked,
And dignity becomes a mask.

Yet still, beneath the heavy fog,
Some rise and fight this quiet crime.
They speak for those still shut outside,
And call for fairness, loud with time.

So let the voices rise again,
Let merit, not bloodline, decide.
For nations bloom where all are seen,
And justice walks with open stride.