And he manufactured problems

Because he never had any of his own.

And he casted blame, seeing fault in the other

Because he had no awareness of his own.

And he had no forgiveness left to offer his neighbor

For he had used it all up on himself

He stumbled lost, confused, and endlessly angry

Through a hall of mirrors

Every turn he found something wrong

Not realizing he was looking at himself 

His dissatisfaction with his own life

Couldn’t have been his own fault.

It was the fault of those around 

for letting him down.

But he hadn’t the slightest clue

That he was sitting on the ground

Willfully.

Such is the great, cruel joke of life

And he cackled dryly 

When the irony became clear to him.

For he delivered his own punchline

it was he who played the joke on himself.

What else is one to do but laugh

When complaining about the blindfold

Placed over their eyes

When at long last

It’s revealed it was their own hand?