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.