Never Was

They hated a villain that never was,
put together by seeds of discontent

That flowered not during periods of poverty and sickness,
but life, always unsuspected.

The working man toiling in the heat and nursing
bitterness in his breast over long hours,

When not miles away another lamented his lack of limbs
and despaired over finding a way to feed his family.

The young mother, barely into adulthood yet already resentful
of the life she bore, the extra chores and attention.

And somewhere, everywhere, some other lies in a hospital bed, stricken
by the emptiness in her belly and the blood between her thighs.

The child eager for attention, full of demands,
always wanting more, never having enough.

Elsewhere, everywhere, another gives tired thanks for the clothes on their back
and knows not how to dream of more.

Dust hardly settled over the footprints of their lives and already,
the hunger for more steps in, takes over.

Could they possibly know what it means to walk in another's shoes?
How could they, when they've yet to cherish walking in their own.

The villain they contrived of,
when unbent by what they damned as bad luck,


Never was.
Just the willingness to surrender blame into the hands of someone else.

Anyone else.
Even those more worthy of doing the same.

But they never will.