cynicism sits on the table
like a tall whiskey sour
the cool frosty glass tempts
me to drink its poison
‘bottoms up, bro,
the world is fucked!’
why care? why bother?’
but I can’t see myself as
the iconoclast in the corner
who mutters empty witticisms
between sips and watches
the dancers but dares not
join in
outside, hope paces
like a riderless horse
eager to chomp at the bit
it calls me to action
‘let’s ride into the fray!
let’s fight the good fight!’