Cynic

In smoke‑stained corners of the city’s sigh,
A cynic walks, with eyes that see too clear—
He notes the polished promises that lie,
The hollow cheers that echo far and near.

He laughs at love that’s wrapped in gilt‑edged lies,
At politicians who sell hope like wares,
At saints who preach while tightening their ties,
And clocks that tick to the same old prayers.

Yet underneath his bitter, furrowed brow,
A spark of wonder flickers, faint but true—
A yearning that perhaps, just perhaps,
The world might wear a kinder hue.

So let him snarl, let him deride and tease—
For every cynic guards a secret seed:
That even in the darkest, harshest creeds,
A softer dream may yet take heed.