Sour Thick

Pass the blame, play the game — how long?

Photo by engin akyurt on Unsplash

On whose skin you rub the salt,
Tongue-twisted acrid words, unlocked from the vault
Eyes that glare with a blaze, capable of unspoken range,
A fiendish finger that wagger fault?

On whose tender heart you plunge the dagger,
Wrathful, the fragile, pristine pages you disarrange,
Eyes you sought too meek with an exaggerated swagger?

Forgot you of your time and place,
Of the wonderful, lovely name.
Why you soured your tongue,
Forfeited your heavenly grace,
Walked on splinters that stung?

Whom else do you blame?