Blame

In the hush of evening’s amber glow,
A whisper slips through the cracked pane—
A thin, relentless thread of blame,
That winds itself around each vein.

It settles on the shoulders of the weary,
A damp, grey woolen coat that clings,
While hearts, like old church bells, grow teary,
Tolling for the fault it brings.

We point a finger, stiff and proper,
At the neighbour’s cracked windowpane,
Yet forget the mirror’s copper‑topper,
That shows the crack within our own frame.

Blame is a travelling salesman, keen,
Selling guilt in shiny packets,
But the true cost is paid unseen—
In quiet rooms where honesty rattles.

So let us lay the burden down,
Fold the woolen blame with care,
Stitch the seams with understanding’s thread,
And wear forgiveness, warm and fair.