Introducing a poem by autistic writer and creator Carolina Chobabovski, which powerfully evokes the soul-destroying experience of taking a complaint to the PHSO.

Her website can be found here – Chobabovski Channel

This Idle Seat, This Hollow Ear 

O faithless hands, who justice falsely claim,
The PHSO hath brought itself to shame.
With careless hearts and tongues that twist the truth,
They mocked my pain and scorned both age and youth.

Their codes they broke with bold and open face,
No grievance heard, no proof they did embrace.
Unfit-picked guides were sent no word from me—
Just records flawed, bereft of clarity.

Those poor advisors, ill-equipped and bare,
Were left to guess what wrongs had brought me there.
The facts, though firm, were turned upon their head,
And lies were dressed as truths, their bonds to shed.

Their findings false, their process naught but jest,
A travesty that gave my soul no rest.
Their bias plain, their justice but a show—
A shadow court where truth may never go.

And when I cried, “this judgment is untrue,”
Their guard of truth denied what they must do.
They claimed, untrue, they fix but facts alone,
And left my deeper wounds to bleed, unknown.

So crushed was I, so burnt, so cast aside,
I could not seek the courts, though law applied.
And thus fiends walk away, untouched by blame,
As did the cause of Post Office shame.

Let no man say this beast hath served us well—
It fosters rot where virtue once did dwell.
A hollow court, where truth is cast aside,
Where justice begs, and knaves in shadows hide.

It shields the wrong, and strikes the just man’s plea,
While draped in robes of false integrity.
Our Country’s Health falls like stone,
When none are held to task but left alone.

The public scorned, their voices mocked and marred,
Their wounds made sport, their sufferings unbarred.
And all this waste, this cruel, corrupt parade,
Is paid by coin the honest poor have made.

Then let it fall—this blight, this foul pretence!
Tear down the gate that guards incompetence.
No more shall such a knave consume our trust:

Strike out its name, and grind its form to dust.