Poetic Justice Quotes Poems Novels & Stories

Then I whisper into the quiet, “Justice served.” And for the first time, I believe it.

Biansky's gravelly voice cut through the silence, "do you sleep soundly at night knowing the souls of my sons wander restless, calling for justice?" I felt Jason's hand tighten around mine, a silent plea for restraint. But the words bubbled up from within, each syllable laced with the venom of old wounds. "Justice?" I returned his gaze unflinching, my own voice a blade honed by sorrow. "Your quest for vengeance has left a trail of innocent blood - my people, who looked to me for protection, paid with their lives for your ambition." "An eye for an eye, is that not the way of our kind?" he snarled, stepping closer. The room seemed to shrink, the air growing thick with the musk of challenge.

“Do you think this is the way to get the justice you so desperately wish for? By punishing people who had nothing to do with any of this?” “You think you’re all so innocent, don’t you?” Daisy sighed as though she was tired of this conversation already. “You think you’re the good one and we’re the bad ones. Just because we’re less richer, less influential than you, you trample on all of us like we’re nothing but rats. What did my mother do that she had to be punished that way? What was her crime?”

"You killed my villagers. You need to pay for that with your life!" "Pay for it with my life?" Phantom snorted derisively. "You want me to die to make up for the deaths of those ignorant villagers? Did you fall on your head at some point?" "No matter how ignorant they were, they were living human beings," Cassian declared. "An eye for an eye, and a tooth for a tooth. That has always been the model of justice since ancient times." Phantom's face darkened. Eyeing Cassian, he snarled, "If you insist on killing me, punk, then I'm going to take you down with me, even if it costs me my life!"

His fingers tightened, like the admission left an ache where pride used to be. I studied his face then. Regret was dangerous in a man like him; it could make him soft in the wrong places. “Regret doesn’t justify a life taken,” I told him, not cruelly, simply true. “It doesn’t scrub the deed clean. You did it, Thorne. That makes you the criminal. Not the poet of good intentions.”

“It is a word that sells itself as justice but rents itself as convenience.” “That’s not an answer.” “It is the truth that avoids one.” “Try again.” The side of his mouth that wasn’t ruined by the cellar—no, that he had ruined on me—ticked upward, not a smile. “I remember a hall,” he said. “Doors that never shut. People who did not blink. A woman with ink on her hands and a voice that thought law was holy. I remember river-smoke and the way torches fall in love with oil. I remember a word meant to end things.” His gaze slid past me as if the word might be staged somewhere just out of sight. “Enough.”

“You make it sound so easy.” She shrugged, “It feels easy because I have you by my side, so don’t go quitting on me.” I laughed and brushed my lips lightly against hers. “Never.” When I pulled away, there was so much love and adoration shining in her eyes and I felt my chest tighten. “You know, it makes me a little bit happy that you second guess this,” “Really?” she nodded, “Why?” “There is often a thin line between justice; punishing those who have done wrong and becoming a criminal yourself. Calling yourself to order every now and then is a very good sign of it. I'm glad.”

Anger. Pain. Vindication. My palm still stung like fire. But so what? I may not be a violent person—but sometimes, justice has a sound. And tonight, it was the sound of my hand meeting Nerissa’s face.

It's like so many stories were cooking in my mind that I can't count them but I need time to put them into a book. This story was about to end at a point where I’m sure many of you will curse me for the injustice done to those two innocent girls, for the fact that they didn’t get their revenge but just think for a moment, does every victim get justice in reality?? I strongly believe the answer is no. Some painful stories suffocate and die silently within four walls, and only death sets them free from that hell and if any of you think that’s not true, then congratulations—you’re still living in a secure bubble.

I said a little confused. "Are you deaf? I told you to get out, if you don't I will understand that you are resisting authority," the man threatened me. The masterpiece of injustice is to appear just without being just. Plato.