At the dinner table
The conversation shifts to shortfalls
And the failings of politics,
And the heated words there born
Look for solution in argument
And find it finally in blames comfortable assignment.

They – are responsible.
If only They did this or did that, were this or we’re not that.
They who are a people or a race or a colour or an ethnic strain. They who are a name disembodied and unreal, floating somewhere in the minds distracted imagining. They who take the blame and become darkened with each blemish we brand upon their surface, who become that much more accountable with each evil made upon their skin. They who are repository for what we will not ourselves own. They who conveniently engender what we deem darkness. They who are insufferable and unclean.

© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.

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