Cynicism

In the jaded person,
There is a smallness
That cries to be let out,
Free from the tainted hate.

Having felt the pain
Of failure and disappointment,
It longs to once again
Know innocence, know joy.

Yet the coldness takes a toll,
Making it grow smaller still.
Once the heart has had its fill,
The smallness hides in the soul.

It cowers, feeling so coy,
And makes the soul its den.
But the hate and cold won't relent
And the smallness begins to stain.

It soon begins to feel sedate,
Too tired to even pout.
Never again to feel the bliss,
Gone away, to rot in the sun.