THE FINGER OF BLAME

 

The Finger of Blame

To point your finger, laden with miles of blame,

Unleashes a storm that circles back to you,

Placing your own fragile character on the chopping block,

Where the axe of scrutiny waits, sharp and true.  Oblivious to the mirrors held by others' eyes,

You stride across vast acres of untamed land,

As if you alone had sown the seeds of ancient trees,

Harvested the golden fields with your commanding hand,

And in your hubris, reached up to hang the solitary moon,

Claiming the night sky as your personal throne,

Forgetting that the stars whisper secrets of your folly,

And the earth remembers every step you've overthrown.  Spending endless, surplus hours in the palace of your mind,

Imagining your importance like a crown of gilded thorns,

You weave illusions of grandeur, thread by fragile thread,

While the winds of reality howl at your unlocked doors.

Forgetting to clothe yourself in the simple garb of respect,

You stand exposed, naked in the court of public gaze,

Where humility's absence leaves you shivering and wrecked,

Lost in the fog of your self-constructed maze.  Judging others as if it were your divine vocation,

You wield the gavel with unearned, ironclad might,

Pronouncing verdicts on souls you barely know,

Blind to the shadows creeping in your own dim light.

Yet in this theater of accusation, the spotlight turns,

Revealing your conscience, cracked and stained with rust,

Its reflection in the pool of truth, distorted and blurred,

A haunting echo of the hypocrisy you trust.