In the absence of sure Justice

What happened to the bygone days of Justice?
Has the weight of the sullen air pressed down too heavily
on the breast of the thrusting spirit to let it breathe?
Why does not fire burn the way it should,
but shrivel shyly into dampened patch of sickly ashes?
The mountains no longer thrive in verdant emerald
but heave witlessly in dusty despair.
The roses bloom no more as their fragrances sigh down,
sinking low with their withered leaves of old.
Lackluster lard clogs the pores of consciousness,
while vomit spurts from where truth once sprung.
Avarice has tarnished the golden shrine a brazen gray,
and the clergy robes decay from the heavy starch.
Does Justice no longer reign, but hide shivering in the shade?
Perhaps it lives no more, for it has first died in me.