There’s a theory, often stated
That rules are made to be broken
But then, there’s those folks who never bother.
Artistry is not defined by breaking of the rules,
No more than by the following.
Blindness, whether in obedience or dis,
is still blindness.
Thoughtless disregard for all that came before
the devaluing of the past
when did that begin?
Why are iambs out of fashion?
The ability to take form and mesh it with substance
-this is skill. Artistry. Beauty.
The rampant ramblings of an angry world,
therapy in free verse,
takes nothing but time.
To purge the soul has benefit for the purged,
but what does it add to the rest,
except to nod in sympathy?
Is that enough?
Must there be some deep epiphany?
Some elegant epigram to sum it up?
Perhaps not.

But perhaps,
our therapy, our poetry,
touches just ourselves,
our friends.
It reaches no great truth,
no universal core.
It calls not to the ages to hear it
Remembers not from whence it came
‘Full of sound and fury, signifying nothing’
It leaves no mark on the ages.