POINTING FINGERS
POINTING FINGERS
To point your finger, trailing miles of blame like a relentless storm,
Stretches a shadow across the earth, heavy with accusation,
Yet turns the blade inward, placing your own character on the chopping block,
Where it trembles, exposed beneath the weight of unseen scrutiny. Oblivious to the eyes that trace your steps, the whispers that ripple in your wake,
You stride across acres of land as if it were your kingdom,
Believing each towering tree sprang from your will alone,
Each golden crop a harvest of your genius, each wild creature bent to your command. You lift your gaze to the velvet night, certain you’ve hung the only moon,
Its pale glow a crown you forged to illuminate your grandeur,
While the stars—those quiet sentinels—flicker with unspoken truths,
Their light a gentle rebuke to your solitary claim on the sky. Surplus hours slip through your fingers, spent in the mirror of your mind,
Where you weave tapestries of your own significance, thread by gilded thread,
Forgetting to drape yourself in the simple cloth of self-respect,
Leaving your soul bare, unraveling at the edges, unnoticed by your pride. You sit enthroned in judgment, as if it were your birthright,
Wielding the gavel of your voice with unflinching certainty,
Playing judge, jury, and executioner in a court of your own making,
Your words sharp as steel, carving wounds in those who dare to stand before you. Yet beneath the armor of your bravado, a shadow stirs—
A faint whisper of doubt, a tremor of fear that gnaws at the edges,
The dread that without this towering facade of superiority,
You might be glimpsed as you truly are: fragile, flawed, and human. In your rush to cast blame, to elevate yourself above the rest,
You raise walls of scorn that echo with your own isolation,
And the acres you claimed as your legacy wither beneath your touch,
Growing barren and silent, a kingdom lost to the cold wind of your making.
Stretches a shadow across the earth, heavy with accusation,
Yet turns the blade inward, placing your own character on the chopping block,
Where it trembles, exposed beneath the weight of unseen scrutiny. Oblivious to the eyes that trace your steps, the whispers that ripple in your wake,
You stride across acres of land as if it were your kingdom,
Believing each towering tree sprang from your will alone,
Each golden crop a harvest of your genius, each wild creature bent to your command. You lift your gaze to the velvet night, certain you’ve hung the only moon,
Its pale glow a crown you forged to illuminate your grandeur,
While the stars—those quiet sentinels—flicker with unspoken truths,
Their light a gentle rebuke to your solitary claim on the sky. Surplus hours slip through your fingers, spent in the mirror of your mind,
Where you weave tapestries of your own significance, thread by gilded thread,
Forgetting to drape yourself in the simple cloth of self-respect,
Leaving your soul bare, unraveling at the edges, unnoticed by your pride. You sit enthroned in judgment, as if it were your birthright,
Wielding the gavel of your voice with unflinching certainty,
Playing judge, jury, and executioner in a court of your own making,
Your words sharp as steel, carving wounds in those who dare to stand before you. Yet beneath the armor of your bravado, a shadow stirs—
A faint whisper of doubt, a tremor of fear that gnaws at the edges,
The dread that without this towering facade of superiority,
You might be glimpsed as you truly are: fragile, flawed, and human. In your rush to cast blame, to elevate yourself above the rest,
You raise walls of scorn that echo with your own isolation,
And the acres you claimed as your legacy wither beneath your touch,
Growing barren and silent, a kingdom lost to the cold wind of your making.
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