These Things

these things that we support most well
Have nothing to do with up,
And we do with them
Out of boredom or fear or money
Or cracked intelligence;
Our circle and our candle of light
Being small,
So small we cannot bear it,
We heave out with Idea
And lose the Center:
All wax without the wick,
And we see names that once meant
Wisdom,
Like signs into ghost towns,
And only the graves are real.