Cynicism

Some days are steady,
consistently precise,
those little recollections
hiding behind corners,
alleviating that itch in
the back of my brain I
can never quite reach.

Other days are bitter,
consistently stale,
as if I chose to sit too
close to the fire, stuck
in a repetitive cycle I
can never escape.
That particular heat
sneers at the sight
of hope.

– B.

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