The Cynic

I am a Cynic, there's no denying the obvious.

It becomes stark the moment I meet the vainglorious.
I see those as petty animals, only half human, lotus eaters, lovers of their self.
And it's right then, when it bursts in a million hot needles.
Searing pain criss-cross my soul, white heat swells in my conscience.
Pure, unmitigated rage.

Accomplices of the degraded society we live in, do you not see your hand in the works to give it continuity?
Makers of the fat icon you then adore, do you not understand?
The reek of rotten is oblivious to your nostrils, the feeble attempt to stop time leaves no bitter trace on your palates?
Fixed in a point in time and space (silly, futile!), do you not realise you'll be gone before the next blink of the eyelids?
Can you not see the wrinkles growing around your eyes, your breasts succumbing to gravity?
And what is your answer to it?
Conjuring up an image, acting like there is no flow?

I'd shout in your faces, slap you hard on the cheeks to put some sense in your heads.
But it's not for me to educate anyone, so I walk away with any pretence of judgement, and go scrubbing your pots in the kitchen.
Knowing they'll outlast you.