There seems to be,
by Lawrence S. Pertillar
Fewer hands raised.
Pointing fingers these days.
With their backs turned away,
From truth refusing to hear it.
And even fewer people viewing,
Others methodically accused...
For being perpetrators in the midst,
Of creating a mess to have done to commit...
They neither attempted but blamed to do.
Leaving the few left pointing fingers,
And voices raised in conflict...
Assigned to wipe and clear mirrors smudged,
For limited pay.
As a way to appease,
What they say has been for them...
To discover to find and it to see clearly,
Their own faces to keep them unable to budge.
Or move away from images appearing to disbelieve.
'Oh my God!
What is this? '
~What's the problem?
You are staring as if you have found a discovery.
Something disbelieved immediately solved.~
You're here and in it too.'
Cleaned mirrors have a way,
Of magnifying our own blemishes and flaws.
Now don't expect to get more pay,
For doing less work.
It's easy to accuse others of doing it.
Until we see for ourselves,
What it takes to have judgements passed.
And still complete tasks,
Without anyone offering their assistance.
Remain to stay all over the place.
Get use to it.~
'I don't know if I can.'
These temporary jobs,
Don't come around too often.
Remove your fingerprints off the mirror.
I'm not paying you to gawk at yourself.
I don't know what's more difficult.
Listening to you folks awakening.
Or supervising what I thought,
Would be a quick and simple gig.~