My Inner Cynic

Horror splattered like senile kitchen grease;
sticky smoke-stained goo clinging to the tile
in a rancor decked room.
A functionally outdated,
sturdy ramshackle of jaded curtains
filtering, stretching,
encumbering bursts of light.
Tendrils barely reaching the table where
the cynic sits grasping cigarettes in her bony fingers.
Both killing and dying,
she bears a burden of solitude cloaked with relief.