The Guise Of The Cynic

 

We say we’re not cynical, sure of our grace,
But doubt creeps in with a shadowed face.
When trust is betrayed or dreams fall flat,
We scoff at the world—“It should not be that.”

 

We bristle at wrongs with a hidden despair,
Our judgment a mask for the wounds we bear.
We question the hearts of the people we meet,
Even our own, in retreat or defeat.

 

Our cynic whispers a quite tempting lie:
That goodness is fraud, that hopes will die.
It lives in the dogma we’re taught to obey—
That sin marks our souls in a fateful way.

 

Still, every emotion, each choice we regret,
Was reaching for something we hadn’t found yet.
The guilt, the anger, the coldness we show,
All sourced from a seed that’s hidden below.

Compassion, not censure, must lead us through—
We’re all just learning what’s honest and true.
 

The world’s not cruel by its very design,
It bends to the lens through which it’s defined.
So draw your lines well and say what you need—
Let go of those lies that always mislead.

 

To walk with Integrity, let fear be your friend,
And meet every soul and judgment suspend.

Compassion, not censure, must lead us through—
We’re all just learning what’s honest and true.