In criticism's gaze, a scythe, a sculptor's hand,
It carves the marble of our soul, it maims.
A specter 'mongst the living, stark and grand,
It whispers, "Perfection's breath is but a flame."

The critic stands 'pon pedestal of ice,
With quill a sword, in ink, he draws his blood.
Yet, in this dance of death, what form of vice
Lurks 'neath the veil of words that cut like mud?

It shapes, it shatters, in its hallowed might,
A mirror, bold, reflecting truth's own face.
Yet, in its shadow, dreams take flight,
For what is built may also find its place.