Where the Cynic Grows

My cynicism grows.

Of many things.

It grows no longer as a toadstool, here today, gone tomorrow.

It grows now as a tree.

Isn’t that sad?

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

Post-note: Never of faith. Never of purpose. Never of love. As long as my cynicism is of none of these things, I guess my muse and I can survive a few trees.