Lightless and Soiled

Deep in his hole,
a jaded cynic hurts,
lurks, and scolds,
pondering life’s worth.

He is Blackness…
the void.
He is lightless
and soiled.

Radiating the Dark,
(it is pulled back in)
from a blackened heart,
barely beating within.

He wears it proud,
like a blackened wreath
on a blacker house
of charred wood, seething.

The cynic scratches
his thoughts at night.
Irregular and jagged,
writ black on white.

His inkwell flows
down the desk,
between his toes,
into the cracks,

the Cynic goes.

© CGT, 2018.

Blogging Poetry

Obol View All →

Obol is a poet and an infrequent writer of prose.

1 Comment Leave a comment

  1. I tend to read your poems over quite a few times in a row, not because I don’t understand them but because there’s so much going on with the imagery and layers of possible meanings. Each one is a whole story book (usually choose-your-own adventure) in so few words. Down to the photo of blackness, ironically such a colorful tale. I wish we could compare character sketches of this cynic. (Nice play with capitalization, too.)

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