A critic

Stand by an idea, 

A world in ruin,

Dry, desolate, flaking scabs of civilization.

Concrete stories of east....west.

In troublesome view, carried to rest.

What was builds thick, a blanket to warm but veil from vision and carried by storm. 

Wait says a voice but to what shall I wait, 

Let go now these terrible traits.

A thousand books record, a history, an illusion of warn, blank and burnt, shadows not torn....

Tell me, why would I stay?

Labels and dreams, illusion at bay.....

Long gone astray. 

I believed in a thing but only words. 

Now a discussion of old men, death to the words. 

Worries and worlds and words will unravel, 

They sink beneath me, what is it that hopes you'll read me?