The cynic’s purse

Is always empty.
There is nothing savvy
About sowing doubt wherever you go,
Permamently carrying a red pen
Like an examiner who refuses to be pleased,
Finding fault and relishing it,
Holding it up as though
It were a coveted trophy.
Maybe if you weren’t
Rolling your eyes so much
You’d see the substance
Of the many things you criticize.
Its one thing to have
A lot of questions,
Quite another
To never be satisfied
Regardless of the answers.
The cynic’s purse
Holds no tokens for the future
No coins with which to buy,
It only contains tired, blurry spectacles
That claim to see the world
As it “really” is,
Yet providing no actual foresight
On how to live in it.

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