All I distinct is a vile panorama
Behind slabs, then locked for virtuous
And that hope to have been thwarted
Yet I grow grey hair with each daybreak
Surviving in this imaginary hamlet.
Beneath the iron forged panel
I recognize the scriber and a tabloid
To reach for these is the only craving
As I forecast all mine thoughts, scribed
In black and white. Unfolding the lit*
The lit that lies underneath the wits
To rebut this rinsed civilization that
Replete me behind slabs and the
So called globalization whom deplete
My ethics, slayers of my decency.