I look at him and I wonder-
Is he a man
Or is he a god?
He looks at death
With authority
I am cynical to it.
He looks at his country
With hope
I am cynical to it.
He looks at the poor
With a hidden compassion
That only I see. I am cynical to it.
And he looks at me
With burning disdain
I am cynical to it.
He used to be different-
I remember the days when he was my friend
When the whole world seemed carefree
Until he discovered what the world really was
And forgot how to laugh
Until I discovered absinthe
And forgot how to believe.
But as he walks toward his doom
Wasting his life, yet completely unafraid
I wonder…
Someday….
Might I get him to smile again?
Somehow…
Might I?
I am cynical to it.
