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Cynic's Repertoire
This is the repertoire of a cynic.
His arsenal includes layered sheet
for which to hide beneath.
Where claws may be absent,
he possesses without boast, a hatchet,
for detachment, you see,
and the removal of things that weigh him down.
He does not bleed upon severance of limb,
only leaks faint whispers, half-plodded jokes;
a stump that should be crimson is bathed in sarcasm.
He sees his locality from a mapping satellite,
far above the clouds that bring fall spills.
The cluster of buildings, grids of grays and greens,
refute his loneliness, shout in his face,
"You should be fulfilled! Know who you're among!
The many thousands who all understand! Just be one of them!"
Cynics rarely turn to the chill of triggers;
of ice in their drinks that force their doubts away.
This is the method of a cynic,
who hates and blames himself, while all the while lashing
at anyone who refuses to decry him.
Cynics rarely wish for death.
for some absurd reason your
for some absurd reason your brilliant poem reminded me of Arnold Schwarznegger in
a movie in which he axes off an opponent's arm... when the foe starts to scream,
Arnold picks up the arm... hits the man over the head with it and says "Shu..... t Up!"