My critic´s fear.

I bathe in the ideas of this crisis
stricken world.
I wash myself and drain the water.
The new dry will cull us till
corruption is fully thwarted.
Because the cloud makers
have run out of rain dust.
Yet my creativity flows in torrents to grey
dull critics fuss,
they get lost and busted in the rapids.
And devoured by salmon swiping bears.
Yes my free unique-verse keeps the cycle
of life feared,
rolling round like the hands on a clock.
The epitomy of poetry critic´s shock.