In shadows cast by doubt, their name is born,
A cynic treads where faith has lost its gleam,
With piercing gaze, they scorn the rose-strewn dream,
And find in trust a thorn too deeply worn.

No gilded hope can soothe their heart forlorn,
They laugh at tides that lift the dreamer’s pride,
A mind unbound where reason’s currents glide,
A soul estranged from innocence once sworn.

They see a world that’s shaped by phantom glare,
Illusions cloak the faithful’s bold reprieve,
Their scorn reveals a truth too stark to bear,
To mock Godly lives they wish they could live.
So Cynic looms, their Christless spirit cries,
While saints ascend where heaven’s glory flies.