Your empire is falling.

 You presume to know what people want

Bookstores shelved with novels anointed to be page-turners

Mainly catering to a select group of readers

Whose hue doesn’t tan darker than unbleached flour

With just one glance

You think you can pick greatness

Predict a hit

Having no clue what lies between pages

The raw talent you choose to ignore

Literary enthusiast—you protest to be

A stockbroker of books—your true identity

Agents of plots and creativity you are not

 Quickly  bowing down to cliche trends

Since a good story is less important than the

 All mighty dollar