if cynism had a name..
beautiful. like a cobra. the sways and coos of a pointed tongue grew limp from many a venomous spits and it paused for a breather. then, in a heartbeat, opinions of fickle impulse it continued in gentle intervals and cyn broke into smiles. sickened. nothing of belied wisdom that many would mistaken the jibes to hold. only cyn at its best, downplaying any form of boundless creativity, all in the name of some self indulgent sense of justice, but ever-so-quick to take credit by putting everything else down. -j